


burn in the afterthought

by OedipusOctopus



Series: burn in the afterthought [1]
Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, F/F, F/M, Friends to Lovers, Genji Shimada is a Little Shit, M/M, Red String of Fate, Soulmate AU
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-26
Updated: 2020-02-01
Packaged: 2021-02-26 00:13:49
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 10
Words: 46,519
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21574291
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/OedipusOctopus/pseuds/OedipusOctopus
Summary: Everyone is born with a red string tied around their pinky which connects them to their soulmate. The only string you can't see is your own. Some believe if you witness a soulmate meeting and don't tell them, you will be cursed to never meet your own soulmate. Others believe you should remain quiet and let the two figure it out for themselves, for it is fate's job to intervene.Hanzo is convinced he lost his string, and therefore his soulmate, when he raised his sword against Genji. He feels undeniable attraction to Jesse McCree upon first meeting, but skirts around his feelings until he feels as if he's going to spontaneously combust. Meanwhile, why is every Overwatch agent obsessed with soulmates? Hanzo can't have a single conversation with any other agent without mention of soulmates—except Jesse.
Relationships: Fareeha "Pharah" Amari/Angela "Mercy" Ziegler, Genji Shimada/Tekhartha Zenyatta, Jesse McCree/Hanzo Shimada
Series: burn in the afterthought [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1696000
Comments: 130
Kudos: 674





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This is my first McHanzo fic, and I really hope i can do this fandom justice! I've been obsessively reading mchanzo fics for the past three weeks and had this idea of a red string of fate AU wherein you can see everyone's string except your own!

Hanzo is joining Overwatch. Honestly, truthfully joining the hero organization which doesn’t technically exist now, and is technically operating illegally. (Though, Hanzo supposes, he was born into an organization that also operated illegally.)

After Genji accosted him at the Shimada residence in Hanamura, prattling on about Hanzo needing to make some vague choice soon, Hanzo tracked down where Genji went, as is the logical thing to do. Genji’s trail led him all the way to Paris, where Hanzo was witness to, frankly, a closer call of a battle than he was hoping to see his brother partake in. A brother he recently learned was not dead, but soon may be if he continues rushing headlong into battle like a child.

No one had ended up dead, of course. There is a reason Overwatch was charged with keeping the world safe, if their soldiers’ prowess is anything to go by. Hanzo watched from the sidelines--and if a few stray arrows helped move the battle along, no one said anything to him when he quietly approached their group after that giant robot monstrosity was slain. Genji walked up to Hanzo, rested a hand on his shoulder, and though Hanzo couldn’t see his face behind the faceplate, he was sure Genji was smiling when he said, “Welcome to Overwatch, brother.”

Of course, Hanzo couldn’t hop on the ship that delivered the agents back to their base in Gibraltar, even if Winston insisted it would be okay. He had some business to take care of first. 

And take care of business he did. The Shimada clan was no more and would forever be no more. 

After all was said and done in Hanamura, Hanzo couldn’t bring himself to immediately go to his brother. It was hard enough to imagine that Genji was alive-- _ really alive _ \--even if his body became an amalgamation of omnic cyborg technology Hanzo couldn’t begin to fathom. Staring your ghost in the face (faceplate?) was hard enough to do once, twice, let alone every day. His dragons constantly stirred under his skin, like worms crawling through his veins. They called to him in the far reaches of his conscious, screaming in the back of his mind,  _ Genji please Genji safe Genji here-- _

They wanted to see Genji, missed him. 

Hanzo did, too, no matter how many times he told himself that he had no right to.

Weeks went by, spent meditating throughout various Asian and European countries. Eventually, he found himself in Spain. He doesn’t remember how he made it here or why, but his dragons have finally calmed, nothing more than a faint tingle under his skin to remind him of their presence.

The Gibraltar watchpoint is easy enough to break into. The scattered turrets have an astounding blindspot over the cliff face and Hanzo took full advantage. If he is going to join Overwatch, he wants to see his brother first. He doesn’t want to talk to that… gorilla alone. Surely the monkey would understand.

Hanzo begins checking all the high points he can see around the base: a comm tower, several catwalks leading into and out of buildings cut into the cliff side, the top of the cliff itself. Atop the cliff, Hanzo scans the horizon and spots two shiny bodies reflecting the orange light of sunset, a few dozen yards away on a rooftop of what looks like a dormitory. He hops down from his vantage point, sneaks across the small courtyard, and scales the side of the building, checking his surroundings for any other people who might be lurking this time of day.

He pulls himself silently over the roof ledge and stares at the two bodies before him, their backs turned away from him. The two are silent, legs crossed. Meditating. Not wanting to interrupt, Hanzo observes the two for several moments. One is definitely Genji, though he is not the Genji Hanzo once knew, covered in metal plates, neon green hair nowhere to be seen. The other is an omnic floating a few inches above the ground, a necklace of similarly floating orbs adorning his neck. 

Something catches Hanzo’s eyes, something red. 

A red thread loops around Genji’s left pinky, trails down his knee, onto the rooftop, onto the omnic’s knee, and ends with a small bow, wrapped around the omnic’s right pinky. They’re connected at the fingers by this line, this red string of fate. 

Genji’s soulmate.

Hanzo’s eyes flicker down to his own pinky subconsciously, but, of course, he sees nothing. His gaze travels back to the pair in front of him, both externally metal. He can’t tear his eyes away from the string connecting them. His chest constricts, a dark emotion bubbling in his gut. 

He’s not jealous, he can’t be. He knew ten years ago he lost all chances of meeting his soulmate, of  _ deserving _ a soulmate. Fate would never be so cruel to match someone up with a kinslayer. 

It’s not unheard of for people to not have a string. Everyone is born with one, supposedly, but threads have been known to dissolve, disappear into nothing. Cases of disappearing threads are rare and the cause can’t always be identified. Sometimes, it’s death or divorce. Sometimes, it’s a mystery.

Hanzo is certain his thread is missing now. He doesn’t need to ask those around him to confirm.

Regardless, he still yearns to have someone like that. He  _ wants _ .

_ Weak. _

“Either McCree has finally rid himself of the spurs or our security is lacking,” a semi-synthetic voice speaks quietly, knocking Hanzo from his thoughts. Both Genji and the omnic remain completely still.

The dragons  _ purr _ in his ears.

“I do not know what a mac-ree is,” Hanzo says, the foreign word strange in his mouth. His eyes are still on the red string. 

From the corner of his eye, he sees Genji uncrossing his legs, standing, walking toward him. Hanzo watches as the thread between his brother and the omnic bounces and wobbles in time with Genji’s movements. 

“Ah.” Genji at least has the decency to sound slightly nervous. “Brother, I’m glad you’re here.” When Hanzo says nothing, just keeps staring at the red string, taunting him, Genji clears his throat and says, “This is Zenyatta. He’s my soulmate, as I can see you noticed.”

Hanzo finally tears his eyes away from the thread, looking at his brother as he stands before Hanzo on the roof. Beside him, the omnic stands, shoulders relaxed. “It is excellent to meet you, Hanzo. I have heard much about you.” The omnic’s synthetic voice is smooth, calm. 

Hanzo clenches his jaw and looks away from the pair. “The security on this base is abysmal.”

Genji chuckles, stepping closer to his brother. “I’m sure Winston would be open to suggestions for improvements.” He clasps Hanzo’s shoulder. “Everyone is away right now on a mission, but they should be back soon. We’re supposed to have a meeting when they arrive. Perfect timing,  _ anija _ .”

Genji takes him on a brief tour of the watchpoint, showing him the mess hall, the dormitories, the rec room, and a few training arenas. “I asked Winston to install some special archery simulations for you. He’s working on them when he has time,” he says.

As they pass the hangar, Hanzo hears commotion from behind the bay doors. 

“Ah, they must be arriving back from the mission. It’ll be a little while before everyone is settled and ready for our meeting. Let’s have tea, brother.”

Genji leads the two of them to the large kitchen area, across the hall from the rec room. He gestures for Hanzo to take a seat at the bar height counter just opposite the stove and begins preparing a loose leaf green tea. Hanzo can hear the smile in his voice when he speaks, and part of him yearns for Genji to remove the faceplates, another part doesn’t want to see the scarred, imperfect reminder of what he’d done. “I’m excited for you to meet Jesse,  _ anija _ . He’s my best friend.”

Hanzo scoffs. “You have friends at an organization such as this? With other soldiers?”

“Please, look around, brother. These halls are basically glorified college dorms.” Genji turns to face Hanzo, hand on his hip. “Besides, Jesse is  _ charming _ , I bet even you will be positively enamored by him. Plus, he’s a great shot.” When Hanzo says nothing, Genji continues, smirk evident in the way his voice lilts, “Maybe even better than you.”

Hanzo bristles. “I will be the judge of this  _ Jesse _ .” He spits the name.

Genji tells Hanzo about his time in Overwatch and Blackwatch, about the missions and mishaps in the barracks over their tea. Hanzo doesn’t divulge any stories of the last ten years of his life, and Genji doesn’t ask. Genji talks and talks until their tea cools to room temperature, the leaves bitter and wilting at the bottom of their mugs. 

_ “All agents report to Conference Room A. All agents report to Conference Room A, _ ” a synthetic female voice booms all around the kitchen. 

“Ah, everyone must be settled. Come.” Genji rises from the table and walks to the sink, both mugs in his hands. He drops them unceremoniously into the metal tub before walking past Hanzo, out of the kitchen, through a hallway, a left, two rights, another left. 

Hanzo can practically feel Genji buzzing beside him as they walk, the cyborg obviously excited to introduce Hanzo to the rest of the team. 

If only Hanzo were that excited.

A cold, heavy feeling settles low in his gut, a basal level of nervousness and anxiety. Everyone in the conference room  _ knows _ , has  _ seen _ the aftermath of what he did to Genji. Those he met in Paris didn’t seem to bat an eye at him when Genji introduced him then, but Genji told him there are now over a dozen active agents. Hanzo hadn’t met several of the returning agents and he didn’t know how they would react to hearing a kinslayer will be joining their ranks.

Hanzo especially was worried about this  _ Jesse _ character. If Genji is close to Jesse, then surely he knows the full extent of the irreparable damage Hanzo caused Genji. As positive Genji is about their meeting, Hanzo remains uncertain. No good friend would welcome the man who tried to kill their best friend.

As they round the corner, Hanzo sees an open door and hears loud chatter from within. A plaque reading  _ Conference Room A _ is nailed to the right of the door frame, slightly crooked. Genji dramatically gestures with one arm for Hanzo to enter ahead of him.

There are about a dozen agents sitting in corporate-looking swivel chairs spaced evenly around the ovular conference table. Hanzo recognizes a few, but only by their call signs-- _ Tracer, Winston, Mercy, Mei _ . Hanzo makes note of the Bastion unit standing at one end of the table. A hamster is sitting in a small fleece bed on the table, directly in front of Winston. He spies the omnic, Genji’s soulmate, floating a few feet above the ground in between the good doctor and the gorilla. A few other agents are standing in the corner, grouped up and chatting animatedly, one man facing away from the door. Hanzo knows, immediately, that this man must be Jesse McCree. 

He’s wearing a ridiculous cowboy hat and boots with  _ spurs _ . Actual, literal spurs. Inside a secret base housing highly trained soldiers. He seems to be the kind of foolish company Genji would keep.

When Hanzo steps through the threshold, all noise ceases, except the man with the ill-placed cowboy clothing. He continues talking, while all the agents facing the door stare at something Hanzo cannot see, something in the middle of the room, about four feet off the ground. After a moment, the agents not facing the door turn around and stare in the same direction, enraptured. Hanzo squints his eyes and tries to find what they are looking at, but sees nothing. Even Genji is oddly quiet next to him, silent for the first time since Hanzo made his presence known on this base. 

After a moment of silence, the cowman must realize that no one is paying attention to him anymore, so he turns to face the two men standing in the doorway. A grin spreads across his face. He carefully removes the hat from his head and  _ oh _ .

The man, as foolish as his aesthetic may be, is  _ attractive _ . He stands a few inches taller than Hanzo, all broad shoulders and chest. His eyes are the amber color of whiskey, like the sweet honey Hanzo drips into his tea. Deep chestnut locks lay pressed against his head, slightly matted from wearing the hat, long enough to curl slightly around his chin. A scruffy beard lines his jawline, softening his face and adding to his purposefully-tousled look. He wears jeans with rips in the knees, holes scattered up the thighs, the denim clinging sinfully to his hips. A red  _ thing _ is wrapped around his neck and draped over his shoulders, like a pancho. 

Hanzo feels warmth replace the sinking feeling low in his gut. He knows he’s staring shamelessly at this man, this ridiculous cowman, but he can’t stop.

In his peripheral vision he sees a few pointed looks thrown to Genji, registers Genji shaking his head minutely. 

But he can’t take his eyes off that man.

“Well, howdy. Must be the one and only Shimada Hanzo,” the cowman says. He makes his way across the conference room, hand outstretched for a handshake. In three long strides, he’s two feet away from Hanzo. That lopsided grin is stretching his face, accentuating the crows feet in the corners of his eyes. “ Name’s McCree, Jesse McCree. It’s a mighty pleasure finally meetin’ ya, doll.”

Hanzo’s hands remain at his side, unmoving. He drags his gaze away from the man’s face, down to the hand offered to him, back up to make eye contact with this  _ Jesse _ . He feels a smirk tug at his lips as he says, “I am sure it is.”

A look of surprise sparks the man’s eyes momentarily. Then a laugh escapes him, bubbling out from deep within his chest. Hanzo can practically feel it rattle his bones. McCree turns to Genji, mirth plain across his face. “I like this fella.” He gives Hanzo another smile, this one smaller, more relaxed. “Welcome to Overwatch, partner.”

Hanzo nods, effectively dismissing him. 

Jesse turns back to the rest of the room. Everyone else is still quiet, their eyes darting between Jesse and Hanzo. “Why’s everyone so quiet, anyhow? We got a new recruit here and y’all are bein’ awful cold.”

Across the room, Winston clears his throat. “R-right. Everyone, welcome the newest member of Overwatch, Shimada Hanzo.” 

A few agents Hanzo doesn’t recognize simply nod in his direction before turning their attention to Winston. Mercy smiles softly at him, Mei gives him a double thumbs-up and pointedly moves her eyes between himself and McCree, Reinhardt slaps him jovially on the back as he passes the large man on his way to the nearest open seat. 

He can’t help but feel that he’s missing out on something. Was everyone expecting McCree to lash out at him? Were they anticipating a fight between the two? Did he have something on his face?

Genji refuses to look in Hanzo’s direction. The brat doesn’t have the decency to even turn his body in Hanzo’s direction and pretend he’s looking at his brother when he tells Hanzo to sit in the empty folding chairs in a corner of the room.

Hanzo doesn’t see the red thread bisecting the room in two, anchoring himself to one Jesse McCree sitting in the opposite corner of the conference room.


	2. in which reinhardt makes a penis joke

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ah thank y'all so so so much for all the comments and kudos!! It has really pushed me to write more quickly than I normally do!!! I hope you enjoy this chapter!
> 
> If you're curious, this work is named after [this](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=1dKMPf-9tTE) song.

The first time other agents mention soulmates to Hanzo is the next morning.

Hanzo steps into the communal kitchen, prosthetics clicking softly along the linoleum floors, at 5:00 AM sharp. If it were up to him, he’d have stayed in his room and made rice and natto for breakfast. But Genji informed him last night that team meals were mandatory and agents could receive disciplinary action if they missed too many.

Which is how Hanzo finds himself being slapped on the back, in a way he thinks is supposed to be friendly, by a man who is surely larger than God himself. 

Reinhardt’s voice is so loud, so booming, it echoes off the four walls of the kitchen. “Good morning, young soldier!”

He barely suppresses the urge to wince at the sheer volume of Reinhardt’s voice. “Greetings,” he mutters as he walks to the far corner of the kitchen where life-granting coffee awaits him.

As he grabs a mug from the cabinet, Hanzo observes Reinhardt from the corner of his eye. The man is at the stove, stirring something in a cast iron skillet. A smaller girl--Brigitte, he vaguely remembers--is standing next to him, poking at something in another pan. Reinhardt has a ridiculous, pastel pink apron tied around his waist as he hums away, cooking breakfast for what has to be an army. 

A collection of soldiers could be called an army, even if only 20 or so, Hanzo supposes.

“Are you glad to have finally met Jesse?” Reinhardt’s voice--loud, so loud, why is he  _ so loud _ \--would’ve startled Hanzo, if he were not a trained assassin. 

The small puddle of coffee next to his mug, the hot droplets beading on Hanzo’s wrist, were intentional.

Hanzo collects himself, moving to the kitchen table with coffee in hand. He looks up at Reinhardt, the man’s ridiculous grin nearly splitting his face in two. Hanzo isn’t sure why Reinhardt asks this of him; he’s met many people in the last 12 hours, McCree is just one of them. “I am not sure what you mean.” Hanzo takes a small sip of his coffee and narrowly resists the urge to spit it out--whatever this  _ swill _ is, he supposes he will have to get used to. Or invest in a coffee pot in his room. “I have heard McCree is a valiant soldier. He has also helped Genji in his time of need. I suppose I am appreciative of the chance to meet him.” 

Saying Genji’s name still hurt. 

To Hanzo’s surprise, Reinhardt just laughs, the sound bubbling up from his broad chest. He rests an arm across his stomach, hand still clutching a partially-melted spatula. “Ah, I remember when I first met my soulmate--”

He is cut off by Brigitte stomping on his foot with what has to be her entire body weight--Hanzo doesn’t know her capabilities, but someone with over a foot in height deficit surely couldn’t bring that much pain to the giant. The grin drops from Reinhardt’s face in an instant, replaced by a pained grimace. Brigitte harshly whispers something to Reinhardt in a different language--German, if Hanzo had to guess. 

Hanzo catches a word that sounds vaguely like ‘soulmate.’

Something like recognition flashes across Reinhardt’s face, and suddenly the smile is back. He turns back to the pan and laughs once more, head inclined toward Hanzo. “Ah, well, I hope you like sausage, friend!”

* * *

The second time the other agents talk of soulmates around Hanzo is later that day, in Winston’s lab.

Winston sent a message to Hanzo’s comm--a little tablet, not much larger than a smart phone of old days--requesting his presence in his science lab to meet with Mercy for his first medical examination as soon as he is available.

With some assistance from the AI--Athena, it insisted he call it--Hanzo finds the lab. The room is huge, with seven lab benches sticking out from the right wall. A counter lines the left wall, windows taking up the rest of the wallspace to the ceiling. Each bench has some sort of experimental equipment littered across it; some have microscopes, while others have petri dishes and papers with scratchy handwriting scrawled across them. One has electrical wires scattered about. 

Hanzo isn’t stupid, by any measure of the word, but science never was his forte, so everything here looks foreign to him. And expensive.

Three agents are standing around one of the lab benches, gathered in a small circle and talking away about some sort of healing technology--nano-somethings; Hanzo never could remember what the technology was called and it wasn’t his job to know. He recognizes Winston and Dr. Zeigler, but cannot remember the name of the third agent, the one on roller skates.

Winston is the first to notice him. “Good morning, Hanzo.” He lifts a giant monkey hand in greeting. “I’m not sure if you have met Lucio yet. He is also a new agent, and our resident audio-medic.”

Lucio turns to face Hanzo, a grin tugging up the corners of his lips. His dreads are piled high on his head, a few sticking up at odd angles. “Hey man! Welcome to Overwatch!”

Dr. Zeigler gives Hanzo a small wave, warm smile on her face, but doesn’t say anything. 

Hanzo steps further into the lab and nods in greeting to the others.

“I hope you are getting settled in alright,” Winston says jovially, casually, but Hanzo can still sense the awkwardness exuding from him. Genji informed Hanzo that Winston is a formidable leader, but does not have the best social graces. 

Beside the ape, Lucio’s grin grows impossibly wider. “Yeah, I bet Eastwood is helping him get  _ real _ settled!” He winks at Hanzo. 

Dr. Zeigler throws her elbow into Lucio’s ribcage and hisses something under her breath that Hanzo can’t quite catch. 

“I-I mean…” Lucio sputters beside the angel glaring down at him. 

Hanzo digs through the mental files he has kept of all agents he has formally met, but can’t recall anyone with the name Eastwood--callsign or otherwise. “I do not believe I have met this Eastwood character.”

Winston clears his throat just as Lucio opens his mouth again. “Nevermind that. Angela, are you ready for Hanzo?”

Dr. Zeigler nods, gentle smile still painting her delicate features. “Yes, of course. Follow me.” She walks past Hanzo, and he follows. “It isn’t a far walk.”

“After you, Dr. Zeigler.”

She laughs lightly beside him as they make their way down the hall Hanzo came from. “Please, do call me Angela.”

Hanzo nods. 

In what must be record time, the silence that befalls them turns incredibly awkward. Hanzo knows he does not possess ‘people skills’ in the same way Genji always has, but ever since he stepped foot onto the Overwatch base, he has hardly escaped awkwardness with the other agents.

“So,” Dr. Zeigler--Angela--breaks the silence, “have you had a chance to, ah, connect with your soulmate?”

Hanzo’s brows furrow and he continues to look forward. He says nothing. 

“Ah, I understand if it is a touchy subject.” She chuckles. “I know how he can be…” she trails off, eyes searching Hanzo’s face as they walk forward. 

“I do not know what you are talking about.” It comes out more defensive than Hanzo means it to. 

From the corner of his eye, Hanzo sees Mercy’s face take on a new, softer appearance. “Pardon the intrusive questioning. You don’t have to speak to me about it, if you’d rather. I know there is always an… adjustment period after meeting your soulmate.”

Is she saying this as bait? Did she recently meet her soulmate? Does she expect Hanzo to ask about her soulmate? 

“I will keep this in mind if I meet them.” Hanzo fights to keep his tone neutral, to prevent the frustration he feels from seeping into his speech. Were all Overwatch agents obsessed with soulmates? Didn’t they have a job to do, saving the world?

“Oh!” Angela exclaims, a little breathless. Hanzo turns to face her as they approach double doors, a plaque nailed to the left door that reads ‘Medical Bay.’ He sees genuine surprise on her face for a moment before her features are schooled into a blank expression. “Well, nevermind this heavy topic,” she says as she pushes open the door on the right and leads the pair into a small office tucked into the far corner of the spacious room. “Please, take a seat.”

* * *

After the medical examination, Hanzo makes his way back to the kitchen to prepare lunch. When he walks into the room, he sees several agents sitting at the dining table, all huddled closely together, several of them not sitting in seats but leaning on their knees into the middle of the table. A few of them are all speaking at the same time, in hushed tones. At the head of the table, Genji sits with his hands folded in front of him. 

“Ah! Brother!” Genji says, a bit too loudly. The other agents-- _ Tracer, Pharah, Mei, D.Va, Lucio _ \--all look back at Hanzo, eyes wide. 

Hanzo nods his head in greeting and continues his journey to the fridge. Those at the table do not continue their conversation as Hanzo pulls out several containers from the fridge and starts preparing a simple lunch--rice and natto. He remains facing away from the agents, back to the dining table, but he can feel six sets of eyes on him. He feels not unlike a lab rat. 

An overwhelming sense of awkwardness blankets the room, nearly suffocating Hanzo. Even Genji isn’t saying anything to him. 

_ Do they dislike me? Is it awkward because Genji and I are in the same room? _

After what feels like an eternity, Hanzo escapes from the kitchen, clutching his bowl of rice and natto and a set of chopsticks. Whispers trail behind him as soon as he steps through the threshold. 

He can’t say he didn’t expect the other agents to be cold to him upon arrival. Genji stressed to Hanzo that everyone was okay with his joining Overwatch, that they all understood Genji had forgiven Hanzo for his… deeds long ago. But Hanzo knew he was far from redemption, if it was even possible for him to reach. All the agents were closer to Genji than they were to Hanzo. Many of the old agents had seen the aftermath of… they’d seen the old Genji, the broken Genji, the Genji before all the cybernetics and inner peace.

The Genji that Hanzo had created with his own two hands.

They all owed Hanzo nothing, not forgiveness, not acceptance.

Hanzo was used to being alone. He escaped the clan shortly after… that day. He served as an assassin for nearly a decade, collecting bounty after bounty. Never worked with anyone except himself.

So why did this isolation  _ hurt _ so badly?

“Well, howdy partner. Fancy meetin’ you here.” 

The southern drawl, low and confident, forces Hanzo’s attention to the man standing before him, and he forgets how to breathe, let alone speak. 

McCree is dressed more casually than yesterday, his chest plate and serape missing, no holster belted around his waist. A red flannel is stretched across his broad chest, hugging his muscled biceps just right to give Hanzo an idea of how strong those arms must be. Ripped blue jeans are basically painted on the man’s lower half; surely the seams are stressed around the man’s meaty thighs. The cowboy boots and hat remain, and Hanzo realizes this must be part of his regular aesthetic, not just battle garb, not just a show for missions. It should disgust him, but all Hanzo can think about is removing that stupid stupid hat so he can thread his fingers through McCree’s hair. 

The man’s amber eyes drop to the bowl in Hanzo’s hands. “Eatin’ in your room, I see. Not much for socializin’, are ya?”

Hanzo furrows his brows and averts his gaze from McCree’s face. “Genji told me all agents are required to gather at meal times, but after my breakfast sitting cramped between Reinhardt and Brigitte with an angry dwarf all yelling in German I realize he may have misled me.”

McCree chuckles, raspy and genuine and  _ dangerous _ . “That sounds like Genji, the little shit.”

Hanzo ignores the pang in his chest at the implication of McCree’s words. He  _ knows _ Genji, knows him now. More than Hanzo does. “...the kitchen table is occupied, currently.”

“I gotcha.” McCree slides his thumbs into his belt loops, drawing Hanzo’s attention downwards, to the flashy gold belt buckle decorating the man’s belt. He wonders briefly what BAMF means. “Well,” McCree continues, “I’m about to grab myself somethin’ to eat. It’s a fine day outside, what say you we eat in the courtyard? If you don’t mind waitin’ for me, anyway. Don’t want your food to get cold.”

It’s all Hanzo can do to nod dumbly and follow McCree back into the kitchen, like a lost puppy trailing after the first fool to help a stray dog.

Hanzo resolutely does  _ not _ let his gaze fall to the cowman’s ass on their walk back to the kitchen.

As McCree walks into the kitchen ahead of him, Hanzo hears a chorus of ‘Jesse!’s shouted, followed by chatter from at least three people. When Hanzo walks in behind him, however, all agents quiet once more. Hanzo clenches his jaw, does not speak. He watches as D.Va’s--Hana’s?--gaze bounces between Hanzo and Jesse, eyes at waist level. 

McCree continues deeper into the kitchen, opens the fridge, and crouches down in front of it, looking for something specific. Without looking back at them, he says, “Now, if y’all are gonna keep up this silent treatment, Shimada-san here is gonna start feelin’ awful unwelcome.”

Pushing down the heat that threatens to redden his face, Hanzo avoids making eye contact with the agents seated at the kitchen table, choosing to stare at McCree’s back instead.

“We are having a secret meeting, Jesse. Very confidential information,” Genji says, no sarcasm evident in his tone. 

D.Va, the little soldier, snorts.

“Yeah, real secret, bein’ here in the open kitchen.” McCree must find whatever he is looking for, as he starts scooping some sort of stew into a bowl. 

This time, Mei speaks up. “Ah, we did not mean to be rude, Shimada-san! We apologize if we hurt your feelings.” 

Hanzo looks up to see the woman smiling sweetly up at him, no malintent to be found on her round face. He nods at her. 

As McCree places the bowl into the microwave and pushes several buttons, the high-pitched buttons perking Hanzo’s ears, the one named Pharah pierces Hanzo with her hardened stare. She drags her eyes down Hanzo’s body, straightens her shoulders, eyes taking in every detail of him. Sizing him up. Judging him. She lifts one thumb, points it toward McCree, the man still facing away from them. She jerks her thumb back to Hanzo, then imitates slitting open her own throat, killing by decapitation. 

A threat.

She narrows her eyes at Hanzo while he tries to decipher what this warning is supposed to mean. Is Pharah going to kill him for being acquainted with McCree? Is McCree planning to kill him?

Beside Pharah at the table, Genji hisses, “Fareeha, we just talked about this!” He says it quietly, like Hanzo isn’t supposed to hear, but not quietly enough. 

This Fareeha does not remove her murderous stare from Hanzo until McCree is standing next to him. The cowman has the bowl of his lunch in one hand, the other holding a small bundle of silverware. “Y’all fix yourselves. Find some manners.” He glares pointedly at Fareeha before moving away from Hanzo, toward the door leading out to the courtyard. “Come on, sweetheart.”

_ Sweetheart _ .

The way he said it, so casually, without even looking back, made Hanzo feel foolish. Selfish, for thinking it might mean something. McCree must have taken pity on him, seeing how everyone else treats Hanzo. If McCree is half the man Genji positively raves about, then his kindness must be the motivation for reaching out to Hanzo. 

Surely.

The cool air cradles Hanzo as he follows McCree outside, between garden boxes nearly bursting with colorful blooms, all the way to a picnic table at the opposite end of the courtyard. McCree motions widely to the rickety thing, and Hanzo wonders for a moment what his chances are of getting a splinter to the thigh. “It ain’t much, but it’ll getcha away from all that tension.” The man sets his food down and takes a seat at one end of the bench, looking up at Hanzo expectantly. 

Hanzo follows suit, sitting across from McCree. He observes the other man for a moment, watches him dig into his lunch like he hasn’t eaten in three days. Hanzo dips his head, staring absently into his bowl of beans and rice. Four measured breaths. In as steady of a tone as he can muster, Hanzo says, “The other agents’ actions do not bother me. I would like to thank you for your concern. However, it is not necessary.”

“Y’ain’t got nothin’ to thank me for, Shimada-san.” McCree chuckles, wipes his mouth with the back of his hand. “Figured you’d be the self-deprecatin’ type. You prob’ly think you deserve the cold shoulder, don’tcha?”

Hanzo says nothing in response. He pokes at his natto with his chopsticks. His eyes remain fixed on his food.

“Look,” McCree says, exasperated. Hanzo chances a glance upward and finds he can’t tear his eyes away from the intense stare McCree fixes him with. “We all know what you did you Genji. But Genji made it clear he’s moved on, and we all accept that. When Genji brought up bringin’ you onboard, of course a few were… apprehensive. In the end, it was a unanimous decision to let you in. Genji defended you. He told us all about your sniper prowess, about how you’d be an  _ asset _ to our team.” 

Hanzo distantly hears his chopsticks fall with a soft ‘clink’ against the table.

“I don’t know why everybody is givin’ you this much shit now. Most of us were excited to finally meet ya, after all the yammerin’ Genji does about you.” McCree sighs, not breaking eye contact with Hanzo. “Regardless, I know  _ I’m _ glad to have you here. The rest of the team just needs to warm up to ya is all.”

The smile McCree gives Hanzo nearly makes his heart leap out of his chest, nearly blinds him with how bright it is. Hanzo can feel the sincerity in McCree’s words. He doesn’t know how to feel. McCree should be the one with the most adverse reaction to Hanzo’s presence, and yet…

McCree finally breaks their staring contest, moving back to his food. “If you have any questions, feel free to ask away.”

Hanzo wants to ask  _ why _ \--why are you being so kind, why are you helping me, why does Genji want me here, why don’t you hate me--but he knows he will appear weak if he does. He will have to find the answers to those questions himself, he supposes, unless he’s willing to let McCree see him in such a pitiful state. 

Obviously the only logical thing to say to McCree, given this situation, is, “I doubt someone of your cowman caliber would be able to answer the questions I have.”

McCree chuckles around a spoonful of stew, his arm raised so the utensil is just at his mouth. He shakes his head. “Nah, I suppose you’re right.” He continues eating, like Hanzo didn’t just slight his intelligence.

Taking a small, tentative bite of his meal, Hanzo considers his next words. The other agents have treated him… coldly, certainly, but more than that, Hanzo is curious as to why so many of them talk about soulmates. Considering Hanzo is nigh a stranger to them and given the controversial attitude toward soulmates, he doesn’t understand why everyone is so lax about them here. Hanzo almost asks McCree, but Hanzo must admit he is grateful to have escaped soulmate talk, if only for their meal. It isn’t that Hanzo feels negatively about soulmates. Rather, he doesn’t know how to feel about  _ his _ . Sometimes he wonders if fate was more cruel to have taken away his soulmate’s chance of meeting their other half, or if it would have been far more cruel to have left them tethered to Hanzo.

Kin slayer.

His mind wanders back to the omnic attached to Genji. Genji’s soulmate. With a bitter tang in his throat, Hanzo remembers Genji in their youth, always excitable and blathering about how wonderful his soulmate must be. Even when Genji discovered brothels at the age of 18 and became a regular patron of them, he wouldn’t give up on the thought of meeting his soulmate. 

_ “Anija, the more people I meet the more likely I am to meet my soulmate. I’m simply increasing my chances of finding them.” _

When Genji would spout this nonsense, Hanzo always wanted to bite back with  _ “So you hope your soulmate is some whore?” _ but that would have been unbecoming of the future oyabun. Instead, he let Genji continue to galavant around Hanamura, sticking his dick in places it didn’t rightly belong. 

_ “Whatever makes you happy, Genji.” _

His soft spot for Genji would become his Achile’s heel, his ultimate downfall. 

“Now I’ve heard of readin’ fortunes from tea leaves. Didn’t know the same applied to beans.”

That damned southern drawl. 

“You’ve been starin’ somethin’ fierce into your bowl for a while now. You alright, darlin’?” Somehow McCree speaks kindly, but without any condescending tone. 

“I’m fine,” Hanzo bites out between clenched teeth. He breathes-- _ In 1, 2, 3, out, 3, 4-- _ and lays his chopsticks across the rim of the bowl. He clasps his hands in his lap and raises his gaze to meet McCree’s eyes, honey warm and all-consuming. “Perhaps there is a question you can answer.”

McCree’s eyes widen slightly, almost imperceptibly, but Hanzo notices, greedily takes in every iota of the cowman. “Alright, shoot.” He leans away from the table, dropping his spoon into his bowl, and crosses his arms across his chest. 

Hanzo’s tongue sticks to the roof of his mouth as he watches muscle ripple under McCree’s tan skin. Swallowing thickly, using every bit of training from his youth to school his features and steady his voice, he says, “What does B-A-M-F stand for?” He says each letter individually, unsure.

He doesn’t know what to expect from McCree, but it isn’t a terribly sinister grin, sharp canines poking out between plush lips. McCree leans forward, resting his weight on his elbows on top of the picnic table. “Well, partner,” he starts, amusement evident in his voice, “I’ll tell ya if you can beat me in a good ol’ fashioned shootout.”

Hanzo raises a single eyebrow. “I don’t use guns.”

“Never said you couldn’t use that fancy bow o’ yours.”

It’s Hanzo’s turn to smirk. “If you so wish to be embarrassed, then I agree to your terms.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> come yell at me on twitter @[OedipusOctopus](https://twitter.com/OedipusOctopus)


	3. sweet tea as jesse's wingman

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hngggg this chapter was impossible for me to write... so i wrote it three times and edited the hell out of it. it also turned into an absolute monster because the place I had originally planned to cut it off made it all seem very incomplete. hope you enjoy!
> 
> I will try to update every Friday from now on! Thanks for the support, y'all! :)

Hanzo didn’t know there was a second shooting range in the basement of the Watchpoint. 

“Never know when someone’s usin’ the upstairs one,” McCree had said as they descended a dimly lit stairwell to the lower level. He threw a smirk over his shoulder, piercing Hanzo with his gaze, and said, “Figured you didn’t wanna be embarrassed in front of the other agents on your first day.”

Hanzo matched his smirk and shot back, “Convenient excuse. Perhaps you are scared of my alleged prowess and wish to hide  _ your _ impending embarrassment.”

Now, two hours later, Hanzo steadies his breath as he lowers his bow, arrow nocked. Beside him, McCree exhales heavily and holsters his gun. Athena’s voice echoes off the walls of the range, “ _ Agents McCree and Shimada, for your safety all further simulations will not be permitted. _ ”

McCree groans exaggeratedly. “C’mon Athena, we ain’t doin’ any harm!”

_ “You have been training for two hours and eleven minutes with no rest. Further action will result in an alert for medical assistance. _ ”

“Shit,” McCree grumbles under his breath. He turns to Hanzo, lips turned up at one corner. Beads of sweat sticking to his forehead threaten to roll down his temples. “No point in unleashin’ Angie’s wrath on us today. Call it a day?”

Removing the next arrow from his bow string, Hanzo nods. He begins packing away Storm Bow, taking care not to strain the string in its case. 

“Athena, what was that final score?” McCree asks nonchalantly. 

_ “Agent McCree: 284 to Agent Shimada: 284.” _

McCree just laughs. Leans his head back, clutches at his stomach with his prosthetic arm, holds his hat in place with the other. Full on belly laughs. Hanzo can’t help the small smile tugging at the corner of his lips. When McCree turns to face him, fingers wiping phantom tears from the corner of his eye, Hanzo tries to will the amusement from his face. “Come on now, no use hidin’ that smile from me, Shimada-san. You had fun. You can admit it.”

Hanzo ‘hm’s noncommittally and turns his attention back to his bow. 

“Alright, alright,” McCree says, sauntering over to the door. “I’ll give ya this since I had such a good time. It’s your one freebie. Any question, I got an answer.”

Hanzo’s eyes drop to that ridiculous belt buckle, gold and shining under the fluorescent lights. 

McCree’s eyebrows shoot up into his hairline. “Sure you wanna use it on this ol’ thing?” He hitches his thumbs in his belt loops so that his hands frame the belt buckle. 

Hanzo nods, swallows. He has other questions, but he’s already asked this one. McCree is giving him an out, but Hanzo isn’t going to run, not any more. 

“Your loss,” McCree says, grinning. “BAMF stands for bad ass motherfucker.”

How vulgar. 

“If it were true, you would not need to inform others,” Hanzo says. His eyes stay glued to the thing, big and ostentatious and  _ unnecessary. _

McCree chuckles. “Also serves another purpose. Attracts a lot of  _ attention _ , if you will.” 

Hanzo’s eyes finally track up McCree’s body, away from the belt buckle. He belatedly realizes that it must look like he has been staring at McCree’s groin. (He supposes he has been, and it could have been a convenient excuse to glance a little further down, but Hanzo was no pervert, staring at coworkers’ nether regions.)

McCree winks at him. 

Slow, much slower than any wink Hanzo has been on the receiving end of. 

He ignores the heat rising to his cheeks, no doubt reddening his pale complexion. 

* * *

After his and McCree’s shootout (which definitely did not end in Hanzo’s embarrassment at quite literally staring at McCree’s crotch) Hanzo retired to his room. A quick shower and a cup of tea later, he decided to meditate in the comfort of his quarters. 

The room itself was nothing special, but it was leagues above the kinds of places Hanzo had been moving to and from, in and out in two days, for the last decade. Standard, military-issue bedframe with what looked to be a mercifully new (albeit  _ firm _ ) mattress, desk, five drawer chest, and even a coffee table and a small, well-worn loveseat. His clothes were still packed away in a duffle bag, shoved into the bottom of the tiny closet in the corner of the room. He knew that he’d have to settle in eventually, but Hanzo decided not to dwell on his lack of desire to adjust. 

Just as he was about to enter the deliciously empty headspace only achieved during meditation, a knock resounds through the room. With a deep sigh and a brief moment of mourning for the lost clear mind, Hanzo opens the door to greet whomever interrupted him. 

Of course, only Genji could have the impossibly impeccable timing to ruin Hanzo’s plans.

His brother stands before him, a plastic bag with handles tied in a knot held in each hand. The smell of something warm and spicy reaches Hanzo’s nose just as Genji says, “I bring dinner!” Genji shoves his way past Hanzo and sets the bags down on the coffee table. He falls to his knees and starts spreading out the food he brought. “It is not the greatest, but it is acceptable ramen. The best in Gibraltar.”

Hanzo is still standing in the entryway, hand still resting on the door, back turned to where Genji sits on  _ his _ floor after barging into  _ his _ room without asking permission, and suddenly it’s like they are teenagers again, Genji storming into his room with some junk food he managed to sneak past the guards at their Hanamura estate, babbling away about whatever trouble he got into while Hanzo was busy doing business. 

All Hanzo could think about was Genji, with neon green hair he resolutely insisted wasn’t only to piss of their father, with the crooked nose from when he brokeit in a fight with a rival clan’s heir, with the freshly formed dragon tattoo up his thigh, with real skin and organs, all flesh and no cybernetics--

“Brother?” Genji’s voice is laced with concern as he calls out to Hanzo.

A sharp pain in his chest nearly knocks Hanzo breathless. He clutches at the shirt over his heart as it beats wildly against his ribcage. His eyes slip shut for a brief moment. He takes a deep breath, steadying himself, calming his nerves. He knows as soon as he turns around the illusion will be broken; he’ll have to face the new Genji, a Genji he has to get to know all over again. The Genji sitting at the table in his quarters is not the same 15 year old who did everything in his power to turn Hanzo’s hair gray prematurely. 

He has no right to wish such a thing, but he wants nothing more than to go back twenty years and shield Genji from all the pain, save him, if only so Hanzo can see him whole again. 

“Hanzo, are you okay?” 

Genji rests a hand on his shoulder. He can feel the cool metal through the thin material of his t-shirt. Hanzo doesn’t remember hearing Genji stand and move over to him.

Hanzo shuts the door and turns to face Genji, shrugging off his brother’s hand. “Yes, I am fine.”

Genji looks at him for a moment and Hanzo makes out the movement of his eyes through the small slit in his faceplate. “Let’s eat, then.” Hanzo thinks he hears warmth in his voice, but it could be wishful thinking. 

The two sit across from each other, knees tucked under the coffee table. Hanzo takes a bite of his food, not really tasting it, but Genji is staring at him in expectant silence so he says, “It will suffice.”

In his peripherals, Hanzo sees Genji take the lid off his own bowl, separate his chopsticks, lay them across the mouth of the bowl. He fiddles with a napkin, unfolding it, resting it on his lap, picking it back up and folding it again. Hanzo takes another bite. Genji shifts his weight from left to right, back again. Doesn’t eat. Hanzo suddenly isn’t sure if Genji is  _ able _ to eat. He doesn’t ask as he lifts another mouthful of noodles to his mouth.

“So,” Genji says like he’s starting a sentence. He does not continue. 

Hanzo stills, fingers gripping his chopsticks. “So?”

“Reinhardt told me you actually ate breakfast in the kitchen with them this morning.”

“You tricked me, you ass,” Hanzo says almost instinctively, not with any actual malice. Insulting Genji always came easy to him, but the words leave a sour taste in his mouth now.

“Yeah, well,” Genji says airily, “I knew you’d stay holed up in here if I didn’t push you to interact.”

Hanzo sighs and rests his chopsticks atop a napkin on the table. After a moment, he finds the words. “It is not my preference, but if I am to work with the others, I understand I must bond with them. However, it seems the others are not as eager to form a bond with me.” He hopes whatever cybernetic ears Genji might have don’t pick up on the bitterness in his voice. 

Genji sighs and lifts his arms to the back of his neck. A few clicks, and Genji is pulling off his upper faceplate, then the lower. A thick strip of metal remains across the underside of his chin, and Hanzo isn’t sure if it’s superficial, or if it is a replacement for a lower jaw. Hanzo’s stomach twists as his eyes roam Genji’s face. His brother is scarred so much his skin looks almost like a calico pattern of pink scar tissue and the pale flesh Hanzo remembers. Genji’s eyes haven’t changed, still a brown so deep they look almost like charcoal. Hanzo is glad there is at least one thing that doesn’t carry the mark of having been slain by kin.

He knows he’s staring, but he can’t stop. He wants to ask Genji to put the plates back on as he feels the bile rise up in his throat. Being faced with the consequences of his biggest mistake, Hanzo wants nothing more than to ask Genji for his sword so he might be able to lay on it. 

Genji just smiles at him, flashing teeth so unnaturally bright. He picks up his chopsticks and shovels an obscene amount of noodles into his mouth. Hanzo watches, rapt, as he chews for a moment. Genji speaks around his food, “They were a bit shocked having you here is all.”

Hanzo narrows his eyes, forces his gaze away from Genji. “I was told they knew I was coming.”

Genji shrugs nonchalantly and swallows his food. “Yes, but knowing something is coming and actually facing it are two different things, is it not, anija?” He says lowly, mischievously. “They just need some time to warm up to you, is all.”

Not really buying the flimsy excuse but understanding Genji’s jab at him, Hanzo continues to eat his food numbly. 

“Anyway,” Genji starts, “I hear you had a shootout with Jesse?”

Hanzo sighs, thankful for the change of subject. “The cowman has good aim.” 

“Did he win?”

Smirking, Hanzo says, “No.”

Genji puts on an exaggerated, exasperated look on his face, but Hanzo can see the smile tugging on his lips. “You should have gone easy on him, brother!”

Hanzo feels something warm in his chest, replacing the constricting feeling. He’s talking with Genji.  _ Genji _ . After so long. “It was a draw.” 

The small smile on Genji’s face breaks out into a huge grin. “I see. I’m glad you’re getting along with him.” His voice drops a little and he stirs around his ramen, eyes shifting away from Hanzo’s face--an old tell, when Genji was trying to say something casually but had ulterior motives. “You’ll be spending a lot of time with him anyway.”

“Why do you say that?” Hanzo asks, leaning forward on his knees.

“With your skill set and his, Winston will probably put you two on missions together,” Genji says smoothly, too easily. 

Suspiciously. 

* * *

Hanzo awakes to find a message on his comm sent by Winston late the previous night. A training session with the entire base will be held this afternoon as a way to get everyone acquainted with the newer members and doubles as preparation for the two teams that will be leaving for missions the next day. The message also mentions that Hanzo has been assigned to a semi-permanent team; Winston explains that he likes to keep the same groups together on missions so as to maximize cooperation, but sometimes the teams will be split depending on what the missions might require. This team, dubbed “Team 5,” will be expected to train daily until they leave for their mission in one week, since this will be the first mission for two agents. Hanzo scans the list of names: D.Va, Mercy, Pharah, McCree, Shimada H..

Genji, the absolute shit, somehow knew of this team composition before Winston made it official. 

Suspicious.

When Hanzo arrives to the training room, located beside the shooting range on the ground level, he sees several other agents already there. Most of them have split off into smaller groups and are stretching, chatting away while they do.

He sees Brigitte and Lena helping each other with back stretches in one corner, the two women clasped at the elbow and seeming to lift the other up one at a time. Brigitte looks up at Hanzo and her whole face lights up. She lets go of Lena abruptly--and ignores the subsequent indignant squawk--to wave heartily at Hanzo. “Hanzo!” she shouts. Loudly. Hanzo supposes it is a habit picked up while she worked under Reinhardt. “I was telling Lena about how you ate breakfast with us yesterday and she doesn’t believe me! Tell her all about it!”

Hanzo steps closer to them, not wanting to match Briggite’s shout. He eyes Lena warily as she sits up on the ground. “I was tricked, but I did eat with them,” he says, deadpan. 

Brigitte scoffs and crosses her arms. “No need to be rude. We are great company.” She speaks with a smile on her face, without bite.

“My dear brother is just upset he actually had to talk to somebody,” Genji’s voice interrupts whatever Hanzo was about to say. The cyborg walks over to their little group from where he and Zenyatta were. “He’d act like this no matter who was in the kitchen. Right, anija?” Genji rests an elbow on Hanzo’s shoulder, leaning into him.

“Of course,” Hanzo grits out, wrenching Genji’s arm off of him. “I did not mean offense to you or your company, Ms. Lindholm.”

“Uh,” Brigitte splutters, cheeks slightly pink as she stares up at Hanzo wide-eyed. “J-just call me Brigitte. Ms. Lindholm is my mom.” She chuckles awkwardly. 

The four all stand, awkwardly, in a circle, not saying anything for several beats.

Across the room, Winston clears his throat. “Well, since all agents are present, gather around.”

Hanzo’s eyes scan the room as he approaches Winston and he tries to list every agent’s name in his head as his gaze passes over them. 

“I can smell you thinkin’ from over here.”

Hanzo turns to see McCree standing next to him, so close. He’s not sure how McCree managed to sneak up on him, considering how large and conspicuous the man is. He looks down and sees that the man isn’t wearing his boots with spurs, the offending shoes replaced with more sensible runners. “I am testing my knowledge of every agent’s name and face.”

McCree chuckles beside him. “Ain’t no one gonna be mad if you forget their name. These folks understand you’re meetin’ a lotta people all at once.”

Before Hanzo can respond, Winston is awkwardly coughing into his fist ahead of them, in front of the large collection of agents awaiting his direction. “You all will be split into groups today to run some training simulations. With the new recruits, I have moved around the teams. Lena, Genji, Zenyatta, Jack, you’ll all be together for now. You will be leaving with Lucio, Hammond, Brigitta, and Bastion tomorrow for your missions in the UK. The rest of you, you should have received a communication with your regular teams last night. Group up and take these,” Winston holds up a small stack of papers. “New training simulations designed to encourage cooperation.”

The agents break off into their respective groups. McCree leads Hanzo to where Fareeha and Angela stand, quietly talking to each other. 

“Howdy,” McCree greets, casual as can be. 

Hana stomps over to them, typing away furiously at her phone. She pops her bubble gum once, looks up at the four of them, and says, “Ugh, I’m the fifth wheel.”

“Now, what does that mean?” McCree crosses his arms and stares down his nose at Hana, amusement evident in his voice. 

“Not everyone has their soulmate, Jesse.” Hana pops her gum once more before turning on her heel. “Gotta grab my MEKA, brb.”

McCree looks over at Hanzo, confusion written across his face. Hanzo stares back, equally confused. He glances over at Angela and Fareeha, eyes drawn to the red string connecting them. The two women have surprised looks on their faces, eyes slightly widened. 

Angela laughs nervously and says, “Teenagers, what can you do?”

-

Training goes well. Hanzo finds it’s simple enough to cover the others, though he knows he will need some more time to learn to properly cover Fareeha when she is so high in the sky. For now, though, he is able to save the rest of the team from any training bots that tried to sneak up to them, and that’s enough for him. 

As Hanzo is about to step out of the room to head back to his quarters for a much-needed shower, McCree calls out to him and jogs over. Sweat dampens the hair framing his face, making the strands cling to his temples. “Good shootin’ out there, partner,” he drawls, grinning like a fool. “Wanna join me for dinner?” 

Hanzo opens his mouth, closes it, feels heat rush to his face. McCree wants to have dinner with him? Not in a coincidental, I’m-about-to-eat-and-see-you-have-food way, but in a predetermined, making-plans to-eat-together way.

_ He’s just being friendly, it’s not as if he is asking you on a date. Do not get your hopes up. _

McCree’s eyes widen a fraction, and Hanzo reasons that the reddening of his cheeks is solely due to the hard work they just did. As if realizing how the question must have sounded to Hanzo, McCree rushes to say, “I mean, join  _ us _ for dinner. Wednesdays are team dinner nights. It’s my turn to do the cookin’, so I’m makin’ my famous chili. Wasn’t sure if anybody told ya.”

Hanzo nods and absently runs a finger across the string of Storm Bow. “I will be there.”

McCree’s grin softens into a soft smile.

Movement from a few yards behind McCree catches Hanzo’s attention. It’s Genji, pointing his index fingers at Hanzo, thumbs raised. 

Genji is giving him finger guns. 

* * *

A sense of deja vu envelopes Hanzo as his prosthetics click against the kitchen floor linoleum. He took the time to take a long, hot shower, let blessedly scalding hot water soothe his aching muscles. Winston was brutal with their new training regimen and Hanzo was not complaining; he knew the team would be better for it. 

As he enters the kitchen, afternoon tea calling his name, Hanzo sees McCree’s broad back facing him from behind the counter. Upon closer inspection, Hanzo notices the man if chopping vegetables into neat piles, mini-mountains stacked high. Multiple containers with faded labels line the counter--spices, Hanzo guesses. He continues to watch McCree chop away, still standing behind the man as he works. He’s not sure he can do anything else in that moment, if he’s honest with himself, because McCree is standing there, stupidly attractive, a very hot obstacle in Hanzo’s path. 

In lieu of a flannel, McCree is wearing a sinfully tight muscle tank, the arm holes so low Hanzo isn’t sure the thing could be considered a shirt. Thin, worn sweatpants hug every curve of McCree’s ass, leaving absolutely nothing to the imagination and Hanzo wars with himself over whether he wants McCree to turn around so Hanzo can see what else isn’t being hidden by these pants. Perhaps most surprisingly, there is no cowboy hat sitting atop his head. His chestnut locks are dripping tiny beads of water onto his shoulders. Hanzo resolutely does  _ not _ want to run his fingers through McCree’s hair in that instance. Regardless, he is grateful that without the hat he will have full visual of the man’s entire face. 

“Take a picture, it’ll last longer, darlin’.” 

Hanzo takes a deep breath and continues into the kitchen proper. He must stop loitering in entryways. “I apologize, it seems I am still a little… out of sorts from training.”

“Whatever you say, sugar.” McCree chuckles and continues chopping away.

Hanzo once again peaks over the man’s shoulder to see what he is up to. “Is this… chili?”

“It’s the beginnin’ of it, anyhow. Lots o’ prep, then I let it simmer for a while.” McCree doesn’t look up from his work as he speaks.

Hanzo glances at the stove and sees two massive pots, bigger than any Hanzo has seen. “Why two? Surely one yields enough to feed everyone here.”  _ For several days, probably, _ he doesn’t add.

Hanzo watches McCree’s mouth turn upward with a smirk. “One’s fer my special extra spicy batch, the other is for the more, uh, how should I put this…” 

“Weak?”

“Now,” McCree raises the chef’s knife into the air, pointing it at Hanzo--for emphasis and not a threat, Hanzo hopes--and says, “you’re speakin’ my language, honey! Anyhow, what brings you to these parts?”

“Tea.”

Turning back to his vegetables, McCree hms softly. “Never understood the appeal.”

Hanzo reaches into the cabinet beside McCree, standing on his toes to grab his favorite brand of tea he’d purchased before he left Japan. “You do not like tea?”

“Well, not the kind  _ you _ would call tea.” McCree lifts the cutting board at an angle and pushes the piles of veggies into one of the pots. “You’d prob’ly spit my kinda tea right through your teeth.”

Hanzo looks at McCree quizzically as he fills his kettle with water.

“Hang on one sec.” The cowboy opens the fridge and pulls out a pitcher of deep amber liquid. He grabs a cup from the drying rack and pours two fingers of it and offers it to Hanzo. 

“Cold tea? I have had cold tea. I do not prefer it, but it is not so bad that I would spit it out.”

“Whatever you say, darlin’. Bethcha y'ain’t never had somethin’ like this.”

Hanzo reluctantly takes the glass, fingers brushing McCree’s for a brief moment. He hopes McCree doesn’t notice the way his grip falters then, nearly causing him to drop the glass. He averts his gaze and takes a sip.

In a moment of utter shock so severe he loses all semblance of a brain-to-mouth filter, Hanzo says, “I have been forced to drink poison more appetizing than this.”

McCree just laughs. “I think that’s a little unfair. It’s just sweet tea, doll.” He takes the glass from Hanzo and sets it in the sink. He returns to his task of separating the vegetables between the two pots. Nonchalantly, he says, “You’re sweet enough without all that sugar anyhow, ain’t ya?”

The tips of his ears  _ definitely _ don’t burn at the compliment.

(They do.)

* * *

Team dinner is, well…

An Affair™.

Hanzo doesn’t know how else to describe it. He supposes Genji could come up with some colorful descriptors, like  _ fucking wild _ , an  _ absolute nightmare,  _ a  _ circus act. _

It starts the way Hanzo imagines in his head. He’s met enough of the agents of Overwatch to understand the extent of the… eclectic collection of personalities between them. Going into this dinner, where all agents sit in a small room, cramped together at one table, with food--and alcohol, apparently, though Hanzo didn’t get that memo--aplenty, Hanzo expected there to be some level of insanity.

When the meal started with about 8 different conversations happening simultaneously and not at all mutually exclusively, Hanzo was fine. He admits he was a little surprised that McCree decided to sit next to him. Genji filed in with Zenyatta and took the seat across from Hanzo, faceplates already removed. Perhaps more surprising was that Dr. Mei-ling Zhou sat to Hanzo’s right and uttered a quiet  _ konbanwa _ under her breath, accent apparent but not off-putting. 

The conversations continue around him, and it’s agent versus agent in a competition of who can be the loudest. Hanzo hears Winston sigh at least ten times before the pot of chilli even makes it to the poor ape. Morrison sits beside Winston, and also sighs. Many times. 

Hanzo knows he should at least attempt to enter one of the many conversations going on around him, but with McCree’s body heat radiating beside him like a space heater, he can’t seem to form words with his mouth. Every once in a while, McCree’s clothed elbow--thankfully the man decided to put on an actual shirt--would brush Hanzo’s arm, and every time Hanzo had to remind himself how to properly lift a spoon to his mouth without spilling like an infant.

Mercifully, Dr. Zhou seems to take pity on Hanzo. She takes her unused napkin, rips it in two, hands on half to Hanzo wordlessly, and begins to fold the other half. Hanzo watches her movements like a hawk, hoping that fixating on her fingers making crease after crease will be enough to distract Hanzo from McCree’s casual, accidental touches. Soon enough, Dr. Zhou lifts her creation up to Hanzo, a silent offering. 

A snowflake. 

Hanzo smiles lightly and begins folding a flower out of the half-napkin she gifted him. While he works, Mei occasionally leans over and makes small jokes in Japanese, usually some comment on how ridiculous the other agents are being. Hanzo tries his hardest to make this simple flower as perfect as possible, but the flimsy nature of the napkin means his work is a bit sloppy. With some amount of deflated pride at the limpness of the flower, Hanzo offers it to Dr. Zhou. 

She doesn’t seem to mind that it’s a little flaccid, if the bright smile on her face is anything to go by. For a moment, Hanzo feels peace for the first time since he arrived to the Overwatch base. 

Of course, no peace could last forever. 

All Hanzo hears is Hana screeching at Lucio, and Lucio fighting back just as loudly. He thinks he hears something about streaming some video game, and then he hears a loud  _ splat _ , heard ‘round the table. 

The other agents fall silent. 

Hanzo looks up from his open palm, terrible origami flower wilting away, to see that Lucio has a spoon-shaped glob of chili sliding down his cheek. 

The entire table immediately devolves into absolute chaos. 

Agents are flinging chili and shredded cheese, painting each other and the walls in spiced meat stew. Hanzo looks across the table at Genji to see his brother giving him the widest, sliest smirk Hanzo had ever seen on his face as he raises his own spoon. 

Hell. No.

Hanzo swiftly rises from his seat but keeps himself low, bent at the waist, as he all but sprints to the door of the kitchen. His escape imminent, he spares one last glance at McCree. 

McCree throws him an apologetic smile, spoon already raised and ready to fire. He shrugs one shoulder, winks, and flings the dollop of chili across the table. Hanzo watches in abject horror as it lands square in the middle of Genji’s forehead. 

As he makes his great escape from the kitchen at last, sounds of the full-blown food fight raging behind him, Hanzo laughs harder than he has in 20 years.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> okay so i've written the next 2-3 chapters pretty much entirely, and i've now outlined three different endings for the fic and i absolutely hate them all. basically, i have no clue where the fic is going but i really hope y'all will stick around because i really do enjoy writing these two idiots and i'm going to figure it out eventually!
> 
> PS my texas heart is enjoying being able to use ridiculous contractions like y'ain't and y'all's


	4. tomato sandwiches and a horse

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i swear this is a mchanzo fic and is not just a 'hanzo makes friends in overwatch' fic. the next chapter is almost entirely hanzo and mccree interactions so please bear with me!!! this whole fic has kind of turned into some sort of character study, and i'm not *mad* but i wish i could write legitimate plot better than i do!
> 
> also, there is a possibility of the rating increasing to Explicit in a few chapters. please let me know if you'd rather i put it as a separate work in a series with this fic if that kind of thing would make you uncomfortable! it's definitely not necessary to read it for the rest of the plot to make sense, but i'm self-indulgent af.
> 
> also, i put a *tentative* chapter count finally! i have an outline i don't absolutely hate, so i'm going to run with it!

Nightmares™. 

Hanzo is not unfamiliar with them. Even as a young boy, before all the oyabun and fratricide, his own traitorous mind plagued him every waking moment, and many of the sleeping ones, too. He really should consider himself lucky that he was able to sleep the night previous uninterrupted by his own unconscious betraying him. And yet, when he wakes after a particularly bloody mental apparition and rolls over to see 2:30 bright and blaring red searing his sleep-sensitive eyes, he can’t help but feel frustrated. Only one night of freedom isn’t  _ fair. _

Complaining about fairness surely won’t help him get back to sleep. Worse yet, it reminds Hanzo of Genji, acting as a petulant child at the ripe age of 17, moaning about the restrictions their father imposed on them as teenagers. 

With a hearty sigh and a (frankly, overdramatic) flourish of sheets as he rips them away from his body, Hanzo sits up in his bed. He grabs for his prosthetics, carefully placed on the nightstand, and attaches them with a soft click where his knees used to be. He walks to the kitchen, convinced that a cup of sancha tea will relax him enough that he might be able to catch a little more sleep. As he rounds the corner and hears a soft, feminine voice humming quietly, he kicks himself internally. Should he continue running into other agents at any hour of the day in this god forsaken kitchen, perhaps he should invest in an electric kettle for his quarters.

He feels some sense of relief when he steps into the kitchen and sees that it is Dr. Zhou sitting at the table, a steaming mug in front of her, her fingers working away at some pale blue origami paper. In front of her are a few paper sculptures of varying intricacy, some made of paper decorated with some sparkle, reminding Hanzo of the ice that shoots from her blaster. Dr. Zhou does not look up as Hanzo makes his way into the counter, just continues humming away. Hanzo isn’t sure if she is trying to be polite and give Hanzo his space or if she truly did not notice him, as he is sure anyone awake at this hour is not at their full wit. He quietly prepares his tea, keeping an eye on Dr. Zhou at the dining table. 

He walks over to the table, voice hesitant when he says, “Do you mind if I sit with you, Dr. Zhou?”

Dr. Zhou jumps slightly, surprised at his presence it seems. She quickly recovers, fingers still pressed against the paper construction on the table, and looks up at Hanzo with an earnest look in her eyes. Her smile is blinding, shiny and white like the ice sheets Hanzo has seen in pictures of Antarctica. “Absolutely, Shimada-san!”

“Please, call me Hanzo.” He sets the cup of tea down on the table before sitting across from Dr. Zhou. 

She giggles lightly, gaze moving back to the work in front of her. “Only if you call me Mei. No more Dr. Zhou.”

Hanzo reluctantly agrees. 

The two sit in companionable silence for several minutes, Hanzo sipping at his tea once it has cooled to a bearable temperature, Mei folding away. Once she is completed with her project--an intricate butterfly, from the looks of it--Mei slides a few squares of paper to Hanzo’s side of the table. “Folding always helps me decompress when I can’t sleep.”

Hanzo is appreciative of the gesture. She doesn’t ask him why he’s here, doesn’t push for him to talk, and is trying to share in the thing that helps her. A smile creeps its way onto Hanzo’s face as he takes a sheet of deep blue paper and starts folding a small dragon. 

He’s almost done with the delicate dragon when Mei speaks again. “How are you adjusting to life at Overwatch?”

Hanzo stops his ministrations, takes a sip of tea as he contemplates how to answer. Mei is kind, and helped him feel less out of place at the team dinner that night. She spoke in Japanese with Hanzo, and it felt nice to speak his mother tongue to someone other than Genji. Hanzo can’t help but feel warmth in her presence. (The irony is not lost on him.) But for whatever reason, he thinks he and Mei could be  _ friends _ . Being around Mei is easy, inexplicably so, and Hanzo is a selfish man. Normally he’d brush off the question with a curt ‘fine, thank you,’ but he allows Mei in, if only because he wants to be friends with her and even he has enough social graces to know this is a chance to start something good. “It has been fine, I suppose. It is still early. However, being around Genji is still…” He struggles to find a word. He anticipates Mei might jump in with her own adjectives, but she just continues looking up at Hanzo with a bright smile and patient eyes. Eventually, he says, “Odd.”

Mei ‘hm’s quietly, hands moving away from her paper sculpture to take a sip of her own tea. Hanzo knows this topic is heavy, one that is nigh impossible to be able to respond to, and doesn’t expect any sufficient reply. It’s a possibility that Mei is trying to make small talk since the two are in such close quarters with no other agent around to distract them from the impending awkward silence, and he went and made it terribly dark. He should’ve just said everything was fine and moved on like he always does.

“I understand,” Mei says, completely surprising Hanzo. “Well, I don’t  _ understand _ , but I sympathize.” 

Hanzo can’t help but feel relief--Mei didn’t ignore his social faux pas but also did not offer any unsolicited advice. 

His relief is short lived, however. She continues, nonchalantly, “I’m glad you are getting along so well with McCree, though.”

He can’t help the small flutter his heart does, and he curses himself for being so weak that simply mentioning the cowman gives such a response. McCree has been nothing but kind to him, and this conversation with Mei has shown Hanzo that he is nothing but eager to grasp at straws, at the smallest inkling of kindness someone might show him. He has spent a scant few hours in McCree’s presence--he has no right to think they are anything more than mere acquaintances at this point. And yet, Hanzo sees in his mind’s eye the small yet painfully intimate touches, the soft smiles, the playful grins, the witty words that McCree has graced him with during the last 24 hours and he  _ wants _ . This muddled word vomit, emotional soup, is too much to spill on Mei right now, might burn her beyond wanting to spend any more time with Hanzo, and he can’t give her a reason to stop this before it starts--he’s so selfish--so he says, “Yes, he is acceptable company,” and hopes the hair hanging limply on his head is enough to shield the burning tips of his ears.

Bringing a hand up to her mouth, Mei just giggles, the sound like tinkling bells. Hanzo thinks it couldn’t contrast with McCree’s full, hearty laugh more. “Do you know how to make a horse?”

“I can make a [simple horse](https://images.app.goo.gl/S8TGAoZdrFCrKZLY8), yes.” He picks another square of paper, this one a soft cream color, and begins folding. Mei watches, rapt, occasionally simping from her mug. When he finishes, he slides it across the table. “I am sure I could make a more realistic one, given some time.”

“How cute!” She picks up the piece of folded paper and admires it from all angles. “Good origami doesn’t have to be realistic. It’s the intent that differentiates good from bad. If you fold with conviction, the sculpture will be great.”

Hanzo isn’t convinced, but nods nonetheless. He continues working on the dragon he started earlier. 

“It’s quite late,” Mei says after a few moments. She stands and begins to gather her things. “Do you mind if I keep the origami?”

Hanzo shakes his head and pushes the now completed dragon over to her. “I do not mind.”

Mei smiles at him as she carefully deposits the paper creatures into the crook of her arm. “Goodnight, Hanzo,” she says, making her retreat from the kitchen. 

After she leaves, Hanzo realizes this is the first conversation he’s had with another agent aside from McCree and Genji that did not involve soulmates.

* * *

These nightly origami-and-insomnia escapades become something of a routine.

Hanzo’s early days at Overwatch follow a consistent schedule: Wake up at 4:30, make breakfast in a kitchen that invariably houses agents whose identities change with each day, have lunch in the courtyard wishing McCree will suddenly appear like Hanzo’s first day, team training in the afternoon, dinner alone in his room, sleep, nightmares, origami time with Mei, repeat.

The conversation flows easily between them each night. They do not talk about Genji, they do not talk about soulmates, and they do not talk about training. Mei divulges Hanzo on the research projects she is working on, and Hanzo tells her about the best dishes he’s had from the countries he has travelled to. Sometimes Mei will pull a chair next to Hanzo and plop down into it, so close their knees brush, to show him something on her comm that she thinks he will like. It is almost always a cat video she found on the internet. 

On the fourth night, after Hanzo has given up hope that he and McCree might become lunch buddies, the base is eerily quiet, even for this time of day. Night. Early morning. The two UK teams have left for their missions and another team left on an impromptu rescue operation in South America, so few agents are on base. 

Mei and Hanzo are sitting in silence, folding away. Hanzo told Mei that he thinks he has a better design for a more [intricate horse](https://images.app.goo.gl/a9V9xcb3qADTXNFT7), and she says she will trade with him for her most complicated snowflake design. 

As they work away on their respective pieces, McCree storms into the kitchen, blows past the table they sit at, and makes a beeline for the coffee maker. He is wearing ratty, threadbare sweatpants and a sweatshirt riddled with tiny holes, his face pale and brown hair disheveled even more than normal. His normal cowboy boots are replaced by black socks, embroidered with some little brown patches Hanzo can’t make out in McCree’s rush to the other side of the room. 

Hanzo gives Mei a confused look and she raises her two hands, palms up,  _ I have no clue _ . 

The coffee pot sputters out steaming liquid into a chipped mug McCree pulled out of one of the cabinets. Hanzo and Mei watch in rapt silence as McCree lifts the cup to his lips and takes a huge gulp, his back still turned to them. Hanzo winces, thinking of how painful the extremely hot liquid must be. Jesse doesn’t so much as flinch.

As he goes to take a second sip, Mei says quietly, gently, “Jesse?”

McCree jumps, his shoulders rising to his ears. He drops the mug he’s holding onto the counter, the thing bouncing off of the counter and onto the floor, where it shatters into a thousand pieces. Still facing away from Mei and Hanzo, he grips the edge of the counter, grounding himself. Hanzo sees his knuckles turn white. 

Hanzo doesn’t know what to do, looks to Mei with raised eyebrows. She is already up and moving to the other side of the kitchen. McCree bends down to pick up the larger pieces of the mug. When Mei joins him, she begins to do the same, but he brushes her off. “Nah, don’t worry ‘bout it. Sorry, mind was somewhere else. Didn’t know I wasn’t alone.” His voice is gruff, rough like gravel, like the words force themselves out through tiny interstitial spaces. 

Mei smiles politely at him and steps around the mess to pull a broom and dustpan out of the small closet next to the counter. She hands it to him wordlessly. 

Hanzo is still staring at McCree as the man starts to clean up the mess. In his periphery, he sees Mei sit back down and continue working on her origami. He watches as McCree throws away the bits of porcelain, stares as the man reaches into the cabinet again, gazes on as he makes himself another cup of coffee like nothing happened. None of them speak. 

Once his coffee is made, McCree turns to face where Hanzo and Mei sit at the table. He makes eye contact with Hanzo, averts his eyes to Mei, moves his gaze back to Hanzo and raises on eyebrow. McCree’s face has regained some of its color and his shoulders look as though they have lost some of their previous tension.

Hanzo shrugs one shoulder in reply and turns back to his craft. He wants to ask McCree why he’s here at this hour, but the unspoken rule of insomnia club is that no one talks about insomnia.

He feels more than hears McCree saunter over to the table, and Hanzo thinks about how quietly the man moves without those awful spurs alerting everyone within a two mile radius of his location. Beside Hanzo, McCree pulls out a chair and takes a seat. “Y’all got a little origami club goin’ on? Some sorta secret paper society?”

Mei giggles lightly. 

Hanzo scoffs. “It is not secret. We are in the kitchen where anyone could walk in.”

“Then can I join?” McCree says, voice light with amusement.

Hanzo shoots back, “Can you fold?”

“Nah.” McCree leans forward, reaching for a sheet of paper. “But it can’t be that hard. ‘M sure you could show me.”

“No.” It comes out of Hanzo’s mouth quickly, with more bite than he intends.

McCree clicks his tongue beside him. “Come on, you’d be a great teacher.”

“Doubtful,” Hanzo mutters as he makes the finishing crease in his horse masterpiece.

“What’s the word they use in anime? Senpai? You could be my senpai. Paper senpai.”

Mei giggles loudly across the table. Hanzo chokes on air. 

“How do you know of this term?” Hanzo asks, ears burning, eyes unable to meet McCree’s. 

“Genji used to show me  _ all kindsa _ anime when we had downtime on longer missions,” McCree says so nonchalantly, casually. 

And then Hanzo is thinking about what kinds of anime Genji used to be into--sure, the typical shounen and the occasional shojo, but also the more… unsavoury types. Maybe Hanzo’s first impression of McCree being a little rough around the edges held some level of truth to it. It would also explain McCree’s emphasis on ‘ _ all kindsa’ _ . 

“...I see,” Hanzo manages through a clenched jaw.

McCree looks at Hanzo, eyes furrowed in confusion, and then it seems the implication dawns on him. “Oh God, not that kinda anime!” He chuckles lowly and pointedly looks over at Mei, pointing a thumb in Hanzo’s direction. “I didn’t think he was the kinda guy to have his mind in the gutter like that. Did you, Mei?”

Somewhat inexplicably, Hanzo’s train of thought devolves into something terribly dark and suddenly Hanzo is  _ angry _ . Surely Genji had shown him those kinds of things and McCree was trying to cover his tracks. Hanzo knows the kinds of things Genji used to get into with others. Genji had said that he and McCree were  _ close _ ,  _ so close _ during the Blackwatch days. That could mean anything, knowing Genji, and  _ not  _ knowing McCree. It wasn’t impossible that Genji and McCree had been a  _ thing _ . In fact, it was highly likely. McCree is ridiculously attractive, and surely Genji had noticed, he always did. 

Truthfully, if all Hanzo was envisioning were the two of them sleeping together he might not be as mad. But McCree seems like the type to want romance, want a legitimate relationship with sex--and Hanzo hopes that isn’t simply his frivolous, wishful thinking, hoping that McCree would want romance with him--

Of  _ course _ it’s not, Hanzo doesn’t know McCree and McCree does not know Hanzo. McCree is attractive, physically. His personality is certainly… unique. Perhaps Hanzo does enjoy spending time with him. McCree has not shown an ounce of desire toward Hanzo outside of wanting friendship. Hanzo doesn’t know him, doesn’t have to be thinking these things about a coworker, about his brother’s best friend and alleged previous  _ fling _ \--

And suddenly Hanzo wonders if perhaps it’s not a  _ previous  _ anything. McCree, for whatever reason, does not have a soulmate thread. He has no one to tie him down, literally and figuratively. Genji has not always been the monogamous type. In the past, when he’d mention his soulmate, it was always ‘ _ If we were meant to be, they wouldn’t care about my other partners. _ ’ and, oh, it makes so much sense now why Genji wants Hanzo to get along with McCree.

Hanzo cannot believe how incredibly foolish he has been the past several days--hoping McCree would show up to eat lunch with him, having to fight back the smile that threatened to break free from his ironclad will when McCree would walk into the training range every afternoon, trying to gather the courage to ask McCree for another shooting competition.

_ Foolish _ .

Unable to handle this in front of others and also retain his dignity, Hanzo stands abruptly, his chair making a terrible scraping sound against the linoleum. He turns to Mei, bows lightly and utters a quiet, “Thank you for the company as always, Mei.” He begins to shift his body weight to face McCree but his limbs feel like lead and his head will not move in that direction as much as Hanzo wants to handle this with tact. Instead, he opts to mumble a half-hearted, “I hope you are able to find sleep soon, McCree,” as he slips out of the kitchen. 

He pretends he doesn’t hear McCree say to Mei, “This horse is awful cute.”

-

Unfortunately, sleep plagues him as soon as he is back to his quarters. 

Hanzo also pretends he doesn’t have nightmares about Genji and McCree being a thing, right here and right now, in front of Hanzo’s face. It’s stupid, he knows it is. He and McCree have known each other for less than a week. Genji and McCree were coworkers and friends (and more?) for  _ years _ . Hanzo has no claim on McCree. He knows that. 

And yet.

* * *

From the moment he opens his eyes at 4:30 AM, Hanzo is irritated. There’s this little thing in the back of his mind that manifests itself by making his neck hairs stand on end. He feels not unlike a threatened cat, puffing itself up to look more intimidating. 

He braves the kitchen before his morning shower, hoping that the early hour means no one will be there yet. Thankfully, he avoids all confrontation. So that he doesn’t have to leave his room later, he takes extra food with him back to his quarters for his lunch and dinner. 

But once he’s finished with his breakfast, he is unsure of what to do. Normally he would find somewhere quiet to do his morning meditation, but the image of McCree and Genji being  _ intimate _ burns the back of his eyelids. 

He supposes he might as well do some physical training in his room by himself. Today is (blessedly) a rest day before their team leaves tomorrow morning. While he’d like to be able to go to the gym on base and use some of their equipment, he refuses to take the chance of running into McCree.

As he stretches, preparing for his exercises, Hanzo sees the screen of his tablet light up from across the room. He glances at his bedside clock to check the time--only 6 AM. Most agents would be having breakfast or are still asleep, so he’s not sure who could be trying to communicate with him this early. Thinking it might be a mission-related message, Hanzo gets up from the floor to grab his comm. 

_ New Message from Agent McCree: _ _  
_ _ 05:59 _ _  
_ _ [McCree]: Sorry if I said something to make you run off last night. Got an awful habit of running my mouth. _

Hanzo scoffs and tosses the comm onto his bed. He knows it’s immature of him, but he doesn’t respond. If he and Genji are or ever were in a relationship, Hanzo needs to distance himself. This stupid attraction to McCree will pass. Physical urges always do. 

None of this should bother him. Nothing like this had ever happened to him. He was no inexperienced louse, but certainly he did not often let his physical needs overwhelm him so. He has a goal, one he set for himself before he stepped foot on base and met McCree. McCree has no part in his life, present or future. 

And that’s that.

Hanzo goes through a quick routine--it’s nothing special, as he does not have much equipment at his disposal. It feels good to release energy, to work up a sweat.

He hears his comm ping with messages every so often, but ignores them. 

It’s not petty, it’s self-preservation. 

It’s become quite apparent that Hanzo cannot control his thoughts while around McCree, so in order to create a more perfect union between mind and body, he will do everything in his power to avoid him. Simple.

They are on a team together, and are leaving for a mission that is supposed to last at least one day, so Hanzo  _ knows _ he’ll have to face McCree. But being in battle, in the midst of danger, always puts Hanzo in a different mindset, anyway. He will have a task, a specific goal in front of him. It will be easy to ignore any frivolous thoughts bouncing around in his head. Hanzo is a trained assassin, for god’s sake.

While he’s eating lunch--in his room, of course--Hanzo hears a quiet scraping sound from the hallway. He looks to his door and sees something small and white on the floor. Curious, he pads to the door to inspect it. 

A piece of paper, folded into quarters.

He can hear the sound of someone on the other side of the closed door. The unmistakable sound of metal jingling--spurs. Hanzo holds his breath, waiting to hear the footsteps fade before he releases it in a loud  _ whoosh _ . He takes the note back to his desk and contemplates the merits of throwing it away. 

There’s no harm in reading it before throwing it--and McCree--out of his life, he reasons. 

When he opens it, he is surprised to find extremely neat, block lettering. McCree seemed the type to have chicken-scratch for handwriting.

Hanzo doesn’t dwell on the fact that he obviously knows nothing about McCree.

_ Shimada-san, _ _  
_ _ I am mighty sorry for bringing up Genji last night. I should have been more sensitive to your needing to adjust first. _ _  
_ _ Meet in Range 2 after dinner. Friendly shootout. _ _  
_ _ -J _

Hanzo steps back until the underside of his knees hit his bed. He sits on the edge of his bed, note in hand. He supposes he should’ve--could’ve--been upset at someone mentioning Genji, but that’s not it at all. While having Genji around isn’t exactly pleasant, it is nothing that would personally offend him. He’s slowly coming to terms with having Genji near, Genji being  _ alive _ . If he’s honest with himself his head has been too full of cowboy hats and ridiculous boots to dwell on the Genji situation. His brother has been away on a mission for several days, he reasons with himself in a way that is absolutely not making excuses for ignoring his  _ brother _ whom he  _ murdered _ and was  _ dead _ to Hanzo for 10 years.

Surely.

Hanzo glances up from the piece of paper in his hand to eye Storm Bow, sitting packed away in its case leaning against the wall next to the door. Friendly shootout.

There will be no such thing. 

He has to rest before their mission tomorrow, he thinks.

With a heavy sigh, he resigns himself to his curiosity. He picks up his comm and unlocks it. A notification sits at the top of the home screen: 

_ 9 New Messages from Agent McCree _

So he continually tried to reach Hanzo, to no avail, and that is why he resorted to a paper note under his door.

Foolish.

_ 06:30 _ _  
_ _ [McCree]: Don’t let me keep you from your breakfast. _

_ 06:37 _ _  
_ _ [McCree]: Not that I’m sitting in the kitchen waiting for you or anything. _

_ 07:01 _ _  
_ _ [McCree]: That wasn’t supposed to be creepy. _

_ 08:28 _ _  
_ _ [McCree]: We really doing this? _

_ 9:02 _ _  
_ _ [McCree]: Look, I’m sorry. Can’t we be adults about this? _

_ 09:18 _ _  
_ _ [McCree]: Alright, fair enough. I get it, I pissed you off. _ _  
_ _ [McCree]: I won’t bring up *he who shall not be named* anymore around ya _

_ 10:49 _ _  
_ _ [McCree]: We need to at least smooth this over before our mission tomorrow. We gotta work together and I ain’t gonna tiptoe around you on the battlefield. _

_ 11:17 _ _  
_ _ [McCree]: Wanna talk about it over lunch? Mighty nice day out today. _

Sake sounds wonderful.

\- 

Hanzo is grateful he spent much of his pocket money on decent sake before he left Japan. It’s a shame his stash has taken such a steep hit and it has been nigh a week on base.

The sun is starting to set, casting a sickly orange glow between the slits of the blinds of his window. Hanzo only feels  _ slightly _ pathetic, knowing this sake will have to serve as his dinner. McCree waited in the kitchen for him to get breakfast this morning--Hanzo wouldn’t put it past the idiot cowman to stay there waiting for him to show up for dinner, too. 

Foolish.

As he is about to take another sip of sake--the millionth of the day--someone knocks on his door. He ignores it. 

“Anija, please open the door.” 

Oh. The UK teams must have returned.

This time, Genji knocks even harder on the door, the sound of his metal fists pounding on the metal of the door enough to make Hanzo wince.

“Fine, if you are going to be a child…”

Hanzo listens as Genji’s heavy footfalls--purposefully loud, Hanzo is sure--distance themselves from the door.

Nevermind that small interruption. He takes his sip of sake and enjoys the silence that befalls the room once more.

Short-lived silence, it seems, as the pounding at his door is quickly replaced with the sound of knocking at his  _ window _ . Hanzo moves across the room and raises the blinds to see Genji, faceplates locked firmly into place on his head, crouching on his windowsill. On the second floor. Genji’s shouts are muffled through the thick glass, wobbling under the force of Genji’s fists. Knowing Genji will obviously not let this go, the stubborn  _ ass _ , Hanzo unlatches the window. He calmly takes a seat on the couch, sake flask in hand as he pours another glass for himself. 

“Why are you avoiding Jesse?” Genji crawls in through the window gracefully and stands before Hanzo, arms crossed over his chest. 

Hanzo scoffs, crosses his right leg over his left. “I am not avoiding anyone. It is a rest day. I am resting.”

Genji sighs. Hanzo watches as he removes his faceplates and sets them on the coffee table. “He told me you haven’t answered his messages all day, and you apparently ‘stormed off’ last night in the middle of a conversation.”

“I did no such thing. I was simply tired.” Hanzo sips at his sake. “Did he tell you it was 2 AM when we had this conversation?”

“He did.” Genji takes it upon himself to sit cross-legged on top of the  _ coffee table _ , next to his removed face gear. “He also told me it’s because he brought me into the conversation.” He sighs heavily, leaning forward so his elbows are resting on his knees, face in his hands. “I know are aren’t as close as we were, but… I thought we were past this? You avoiding me? The anger?” Genji stares expectantly at Hanzo, eyes searching his brother’s face. Looking for something.

Setting the sake glass down on the table next to Genji’s left ankle, Hanzo collects himself. “I’m not angry.” (It comes out angry.)

“Jesse said you seemed very angry.” Amused. Genji is still staring at him. 

Hanzo narrows his eyes. “The cowman does not know me. He cannot tell when I am angry.”

“No, but I can. You seem angry but also…” Genji lifts one hand and rolls it, looking for the word, “broody.”

“I do not brood,” Hanzo says in what he hopes is the least defensive voice possible.

Genji’s eyes dart to the three empty sake bottles standing in a neat line on the floor next to the bed. “Sure, anija.”

“Please leave. Use the door this time.”

“Why are you so upset brother?” Genji’s voice turns tender and it makes Hanzo feel sick. “You seem sad, not just angry.”

“It is nothing,” Hanzo brushes off, hoping Genji will take the hint and  _ leave _ .

“Doesn’t seem like nothing.” Genji pushes, pushes,  _ pushes. _

But Hanzo is a rock. He rises to his feet. “You do not know me.” His voice is low, dark.

“Please,” Genji scoffs, moving so his hands are behind him, palms against the surface of the table. Relaxed. “I know your tells.”

“Not anymore!” It comes out louder than Hanzo intended, judging by the way Genji’s shoulders tense and his eyes harden slightly. Good, the brat doesn’t get to be  _ relaxed _ while Hanzo is tearing himself up inside.

Genji stands from the table, and the two are toe-to-toe, squished between the couch and the coffee table. “You might as well be 16 for how childish you’re acting! I knew you then!”

“Leave,” Hanzo warns. His fingers itch to hold Storm Bow. He ignores it.

But of course the brat won’t listen. “Not until you tell me what is wrong!” Genji shouts, matching Hanzo’s volume from earlier. 

Hanzo isn’t sure how well the quarters are sound-proofed. He doesn’t care, right now. His temples are starting to throb and he wants Genji gone. “Why are you so concerned? This is none of your business! This is between McCree and I!”

“That’s exactly why!” Genji raises his arms over his head in exasperation. 

His mouth opens to respond, but Hanzo isn’t sure what to say. He furrows his brows but does not break eye contact with his younger brother.

Genji sighs and runs a hand over the top of his head, as if combing his fingers through his nonexistent hair. “Jesse is my best friend. You are my brother. You two are so--” he cuts himself off, takes another breath, and starts again, “You two are both important to me. I want you to get along.”

“Oh, I understand he is  _ quite _ important to you,” Hanzo spits petulantly. 

“What? Of course he is, he’s my best friend--”

Hanzo chuckles. It feels hollow in his ears, rattling around in his empty chest. “I’ve never seen you care this much for any friend unless you were sleeping with them also.” Hanzo is surprised that he is able to keep his tone even. He didn’t want those words to leave his alcohol-loose lips, but at the very least he will not let Genji see his speech falter on top of everything else.

A flash of  _ something _ crosses Genji’s face and Hanzo wishes he’d had one less glass of sake so he would have retained the mental faculties to decipher that look. Genji takes a seat once more on the coffee table, taking care to move delicately so as not to knock over Hanzo’s half-empty glass of sake. “So that’s what this is about.” 

It isn’t a question, so Hanzo does not deign a response. He resumes his sitting position on the couch and lifts the sake to his lips once more. 

“You’re jealous, aren’t you?”

Fuck taking small sips, he quickly downs the rest of the alcohol in his cup and reaches for the flask to fill it back up.

“Brother, do you  _ like _ Jesse?”

Hanzo resolutely keeps his grip steady as he continues to pour. “I do not consume sloppy seconds, Genji.” And, oh, he should not have said that, but he cannot control his mouth today, it seems. It’s a good thing he has not been around McCree, then.

Genji leans forward and reaches to place a hand on Hanzo’s shoulder, but Hanzo jerks his upper body away before he can. “I have not slept with Jesse, anija. Nor do I plan to.”

“This does not concern me. I do not care if you have.”

“Sure, brother.” Genji stands and walks to the door. He opens it but does not step out. Instead he stops and turns to look at Hanzo over his shoulder. “Talk to Jesse, please. He did nothing wrong. Including me.” Before Hanzo can respond, he walks through the threshold and closes the door behind him with finality. 

Today is not the first time Hanzo has sake for dinner.

-

Hanzo wakes to the sounds of someone trying to break through his door with nothing but their fists. Groaning, he sits up and looks at his bedside clock. 8:15 PM. He doesn’t remember falling asleep. The pounding at his temples warns Hanzo there will be a hangover to pay for his choosing to consume only sake for dinner that night.

Not wanting to deal with Genji again after their discussion--not an argument, he tells himself, they do not argue as they are adults--Hanzo trudges over to the door and cracks it open, making sure to keep a hand on it so that he may be able to slam the door in Genji’s face. He doesn’t deign his guest with a glance before he growls lowly under his breath in Japanese, “Leave me the fuck alone, Genji!”

“Uh, howdy.”

Hanzo’s eyes snap up from his feet to see Jesse McCree standing in the hallway, thumbs looped in his belt, hands once again framing that damned belt buckle.

“You didn’t show up to the range, and no one had seen you for dinner…” McCree trails off, shifts his weight from foot to foot. Hanzo doesn’t know why he doesn’t just close the door in his face like he’d planned. “Wanted to check on ya. Even if you’re mad at me.”

Hanzo takes in McCree’s face, sees the obvious worry written all over his features. McCree’s honey eyes search Hanzo’s own, and Hanzo doesn’t know what he should give him. It feels as though someone is hammering rusty nails into the back of his skull, so there’s no room for him to  _ think _ . 

He moves to shut the door and go back to sleep, but McCree sticks his foot in the threshold, the door striking his ridiculous cowboy boots, making the spurs jingle due to the movement. “Please, Shimada-san, I--”

“Hanzo.” He doesn’t mean to speak. It’s apparent his brain is out of order, currently. 

McCree cocks his head, confused. (Hanzo refuses to think it’s positively  _ adorable _ .) “Pardon?”

And, wow, his brain really does not want to help Hanzo out of this situation because next he says quietly, voice barely above a whisper, “You may call me Hanzo.”

McCree’s entire demeanor lights up, those plush lips (which Hanzo resolutely does  _ not _ want to kiss) stretching into the most beautiful smile Hanzo has ever had the pleasure of witnessing. “Alrighty, Hanzo.” It doesn’t sound quite right rolling off his tongue, his accent shortening the first syllable, but Hanzo doesn’t hate it. McCree doesn’t say anything else for a moment, and Hanzo begins to feel self-conscious with the cowboy standing there, grinning at him like an idiot. McCree must realize that he is still standing with his foot in the door, because he suddenly yanks it out of the threshold, movements jerky and unlike anything Hanzo had seen the man do before. Sure, he was  _ big _ and  _ rough _ but he usually retained an air of grace about his movements, every millimeter of motion purposeful. He clears his throat and breaks eye contact with Hanzo for a brief moment before his eyes return to meet Hanzo’s once more. “Look, about last night, I’m sorry if I crossed a line about Genji--”

Whatever McCree is about to say is interrupted by the most vicious growl Hanzo’s stomach has ever produced. The tips of his ears burn and he hopes the fallen locks of his hair that had escaped his ribbon were enough to shield them from McCree. Sure enough, as if the universe hadn’t bestowed Hanzo with enough embarrassment, Hanzo watches as McCree’s eyes shift from the center of his face to look slightly right, watching the physical embodiment of Hanzo’s inner turmoil.  _ Gaze like a hawk. _

The bastard’s smile just grows bigger. “C’mon, I’ll make ya somethin to eat.”

“That is unnecessary,” Hanzo says. 

“I know, darlin’.” That pet name will one day bring certain death to Hanzo, he is sure. “Let me be nice. Make up for bein’ an ass last night.”

Hanzo moves to shut the door before another growl loud enough to reverberate off the empty hall walls is ripped from his gut. Willing away anymore blood from rushing to his face, Hanzo sighs and nods at McCree. He steps into the hallway and motions with his hand for McCree to lead him. 

It’s all Hanzo can do to trail after McCree to the kitchen. 

McCree pulls a few things out of the fridge, another few things from the pantry, pilfers through a few of the drawers under the counter. Hanzo takes a seat at the dining table, grateful that for the first time since Hanzo has arrived on base there are no other agents to be found in the kitchen. 

He watches as McCree assembles the sandwich, eyes roving over the wide expanse of the cowboy’s back. The flannel he wears is too tight for Hanzo to see the rippling muscles underneath, but he knows they’re there, and he tells himself that his mouth is salivating because he skipped dinner and is therefore quite famished. Nothing else.

McCree walks over to the table, sandwich cradled in a paper towel, and takes a seat as he hands it to Hanzo. He raises one arm so his elbow is resting on the table and leans his chin into his open palm, gaze locked with Hanzo’s. 

Hanzo takes the sandwich with a soft, “Thank you.” He takes a bite and finds that it is… something. 

“Tomato sandwich, a Jesse special,” McCree says with a hint of amusement. 

Hanzo hopes his face remains neutral as he takes a second bite. It truly is two pieces of bread, a few slices of tomato, and perhaps some salt and pepper. That’s the entire sandwich. 

Hanzo hates tomatoes. 

He says nothing, simply takes another bite. He has never been one to be ungrateful. 

McCree doesn’t stop looking at him, even as he takes several minutes to finish the food, even as he averts his eyes to the tabletop because it’s weird to make eye contact while you’re eating, right?

Once Hanzo has taken the last bite, he folds his hands delicately in his lap. “I apologize for my behaviour.”

McCree is quick to respond. “It’s nothin’, it was my fault for--”

Hanzo shakes his head and raises one hand to quiet the cowboy. “No, it was not that you brought up Genji.” Hanzo pauses and looks up at McCree. The other man is looking at him expectantly, waiting for further explanation. “I am…” Hanzo is unsure of how to continue. He is not going to let McCree know that he threw a temper tantrum because he feels he has some inane  _ claim _ on McCree. “I am slowly getting used to having him around, and hearing others speak of him.”

“Oh,” McCree says, nothing more than a small puff of air travelling through his lips. 

“Mei and I talk when we are unable to sleep. I was irritable because of the exhaustion. I should not have taken it out on you.” Hanzo hopes his voice is steadier than he feels as the impending hangover makes its presence known once more with another round of pounding beneath his eyes. “I am deeply sorry.”

McCree smiles, softly this time, so his teeth are barely visible. His eyes soften slightly and Hanzo sees his hand twitch from its resting spot on the table. “Ain’t nothin’, doll. In fact, I might have to join y’all’s little insomnia club, sometime.”

Head pounding unpleasantly, ears ringing, it’s all Hanzo can do to allow the corners of his mouth to upturn in his own small smile. 


	5. mccree makes a faux pas about hanzo's faux paws

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> okay so this chapter was supposed to have at least two more big jesse/hanzo scenes but the whole chapter ended up being nearly 15k words and it didn't seem right to put it all in one chapter anymore, so uh.... i kinda chopped it in half. i thought about putting it all up now and taking a break next week for christmas, but I figure this way y'all can still get your stupid red string of fate AU fix weekly if the next chapter is already written!
> 
> also i'm pretty sure my timeline is all wonky compared to canon but it's tagged canon divergent for a reason i guess!
> 
> this chapter isn't all jesse/hanzo interactions like i promised last chapter but there's still a decent amount here and i *swear* the next chapter is really just mchanzo fluff so pls be patient!!! 
> 
> also i will probably be adjusting the chapter count every so often because it's quite apparent i don't know how to balance chapter length at all in my outlines ¯\\_(ツ)_/¯

With the UK teams having returned from their missions, nearly every agent is back on base. More agents means more chances to run into someone. Running into someone means more soulmate talk.

This morning his team is leaving to the States to stop some sort of shipment of illegal arms dealing near the southern border. Hanzo wakes at his usual time and decides to prepare breakfast in the kitchen--the air in his room is stale and smells vaguely of the sake he consumed the previous night. The fumes stoke some nausea deep in his gut. The ringing in his ears and pounding beneath his temples reminds him that he is no longer young; it all serves as a lesson to not drink so heavily the night before a morning mission. 

Of course, when he enters the kitchen, there are others sitting at the dining table. This morning, Hanzo is faced with Hana and Lucio munching away at some colorful pastry that surely contains more sugar than Hanzo has consumed in the last five years cumulatively.

Hanzo feels Hana’s eyes on him as he prepares his breakfast. He doesn’t know what to think of the young soldier, yet. She performs well in training simulations and communicates brilliantly with the rest of the team. It’s easy enough to cover her, though she is perfectly capable of handling not only herself but providing sufficient support for her teammates. Despite her age, she is a battle-worn soldier, and Hanzo respects that. 

Outside of the MEKA and training, however, Hanzo isn’t so sure. He supposes she is 19 years his junior and therefore has nothing in common with him, hence their tentative coworker relationship and nothing more. She constantly high-fives McCree and the others on the team, chats away at them all while thumbing through something on her phone, but she doesn’t give the time of day to Hanzo. He’s not sure why.

“Did you know that Jesse doesn’t think he has a soulmate?” Hana’s lightly accented voice, pinched with annoyance, calls over to Hanzo loud enough that he knows the words are meant for him and not Lucio. 

Hanzo turns from his meal, one eyebrow raised. 

Beside Hana at the table, Lucio leans over closer to her and says quietly, “Hana, remember what Genji said--”

“I know what he said,” Hana cuts him off. She still holds the sprinkled pasty up to her mouth but does not take a bite. Her eyes narrow as she pins Hanzo with her intense stare. “I’m talking to Hanzo, though.”

With a sigh, Hanzo picks up the bowl containing his breakfast. “I do not know what I should say. If his soulmate has perished or there is another reason he does not have a string or soulmate, it is none of my business.”

Hana opens her mouth to say something, chest rising with her inhale, but Lucio practically leaps over the table to slap a hand over her mouth. Hanzo watches on as the two struggle and makes his way to the door leading out to the courtyard, food in hand. 

Just as he’s about to step through the threshold, doorknob in his hand, Hana says, “What about you? Have a soulmate? Lucky person waiting for you wherever you’re from?”

Hanzo stops, frozen in the doorway. Cool morning air washes over the front of his body. He lowers his voice to match the chill of the frigid dawn breeze, doesn’t turn to face Hana, as he says, “I lost my soulmate ten years ago. My only goal now is to reconstruct my bond with Genji.” Not waiting for whatever snarky response she might come up with, he steps out of the kitchen and into the courtyard, where he can be alone.

Thankfully no one is out here, not even the Bastion unit who often ends up here to water his gardens. He takes a seat at the picnic table McCree showed him on his first day here. 

His food doesn’t taste like anything, but he knows he has to eat before their mission today. They leave in about three hours, and Hanzo is antsy. It has been weeks since he last held Storm Bow for anything other than practice, shot anything more than silly foam-tipped arrows. The dragons stir under the skin of his left arm. They, too, yearn for battle.

Instead of legitimate battle, Hanzo has spent the last week warring with himself and his traitorous thoughts. Even now, as he mindlessly shovels cold rice and vegetables into his mouth, Hanzo finds his thoughts leading him down a strange path.

Hearing that McCree does not think he has a soulmate isn’t a surprise to Hanzo. Hanzo has not seen a string attached to McCree; it is the first thing that struck him as strange regarding the cowboy, even before the ridiculous get-up. There were two possible explanations: McCree lost his soulmate, or Hanzo and McCree were soulmates. 

He chose to believe the former.

Hanzo knew that if they were indeed soulmates, Genji would not let Hanzo live it down. Genji would have told Hanzo immediately or tried in some convoluted--but stupidly obvious--way to play matchmaker between the two men. 

And he hadn’t.

Even if Genji had honored the promise he made to Hanzo when they were teenagers--that if Genji were witness to Hanzo’s soulmate meeting, he wouldn’t mention it for his soulmate’s sake--the other agents likely would have told him. It was apparent that all agents were interested in soulmates--not only their own, but everyone else’s as well. They all seemed far too involved in everyone else’s business  _ not _ to tell them.

Hanzo didn’t let it get to him.

If McCree did not have a soulmate, Hanzo simply would believe they are kindred spirits in that regard.

The sound of approaching footsteps knocks Hanzo from his train of thought. He does not turn to see who it is, feigning disinterest. Soon enough, the person takes a seat next to him, and he sees from the corner of his eye that it is Angela. He looks up from his nearly empty bowl to see the good doctor gently smiling at him, holding out a cup of tea. Hesitantly, he takes it, realizing he had not been able to prepare his normal morning tea on his own through the interrogation Hana gave him. He takes a sip and relishes in the warmth that travels down his throat.

The two sit, facing the sunrise, in silence for several minutes. Hanzo finishes his food and Angela quietly drinks from her own mug of what smells like coffee. 

Eventually, Angela says, “Lucio told me what Hana said to you.”

Hanzo grunts in response, but says nothing.

Angela does not make eye contact with Hanzo, just keeps staring at the sun as it slowly makes it ascent from the horizon. “He wanted me to tell you that he apologizes on Hana’s behalf. Apparently they spent all night streaming, so Hana was very tired. I’ve learned the hard way that she tends to say things in a harsh way when she is tired.”

Thinking better of bringing up the fact that Hana obviously does not like him, even when she fully alert, Hanzo says, “She should have gotten rest since we are leaving on a mission today.”

“As her doctor, I agree.” The smile is apparent in her voice. Hanzo thinks she sounds like a mother disappointed, but not angry, with her child. “However, it is her passion and career. She will sleep on the plane ride, I’m sure.”

Hanzo isn’t sure what to say, so he doesn’t say anything. They sit like that, in silence for several more minutes. He drains the last dregs of tea from his mug.

“Jesse never likes to talk about his soulmate, you know. He says,” Angela drops her voice several octaves and puts on what Hanzo assumes is supposed to be a Southern American accent, “‘I’m nearly 40, if that fucker ain’t shown up yet he never will.’” Her inflection is fine, a reflection of how much time she has spent around him, but her own accent clouds the imitation of McCree’s slow drawl.

Hanzo glances at the woman momentarily, but focuses back on the sunrise in front of them when he sees that she is not looking at him as she speaks. 

Angela sighs beside him. “I used to think the same way. Even when I was in my 20s I thought I’d lost my chance to meet them.” She chuckles and takes a long sip of her coffee before she continues, “I remember reading about a study that said most people meet their soulmate by 21, so when I turned 22 I thought it was all over for me.”

A sense of discomfort settles over Hanzo. He shifts his weight and sets down his now empty bowl onto the picnic table, turns to face Angela. He doesn’t know why she’s telling him this, but he figures the least he can do to repay her for providing him tea is listen to her stories.

She is still facing the skyline, but her gaze seems far away, like she’s physically watching the memories unfold before her. “I’m sure you’ve heard about Ana Amari?”

“McCree mentioned that she taught him how to properly shoot.” Hanzo doesn’t know why he shares this. Perhaps the alcohol still lingers in his system.

“Right,” Angela says slowly, nodding. “When I came to join Overwatch, Ana had just divorced. She was charged with the responsibility of raising Fareeha on her own. Ana was married to her work, so Fareeha was constantly on the base. She was an angsty teenager. She always wanted to ‘get in on the action.’” She smiles fondly at the memory. 

When Hanzo says nothing, she continues, “Ana approached me before she left for a mission we all knew would be difficult. I remember they put all our best agents on the mission. She told me, ‘ _ Habibi,  _ please take good care of Fareeha.’” Hanzo doesn’t know what this Amari might have sounded like, but he’s sure it was nothing like how Angela spoke. “I didn’t know what she meant at the time, but when reports came in that Ana had… perished on her mission, Jack pulled me aside and told me that Fareeha was--is--my soulmate.”

It’s not a surprise to Hanzo. They were all on a team together, so of course he had seen the thread connecting the two. The way it soared into the sky trailing after Fareeha as she launched herself into the air was striking to Hanzo during their first training simulation.

“I remember being upset,” Angela says matter-of-factly. “She was a child, only 17, when I met her. Five years apart seems so drastic when you’re 22, I suppose.”

Hanzo is waiting for the ball to drop, for Angela to ask Hanzo about his soulmate again, or to make assumptions about his own situation. 

But she doesn’t. Instead, she leans across the table to rest a hand on Hanzo’s bicep. It’s so gentle, he resists the urge to pull away. “Overwatch tends to bring soulmates together. Fate isn’t so cruel as to pair a soldier with a civilian. We understand each other, here.” She stands and moves in front of Hanzo, holding out a hand. “About time for the last brief before the mission. Are you excited for your first mission with Overwatch?”

Hanzo takes her hand, not because he needs the help, but because he appreciates her kindness and the lack of intrusive questioning, unlike last time. They head inside the base, together, and Hanzo thinks that maybe joining Overwatch isn’t so bad after all.

* * *

The mission is simple--they are in and out in less than two hours. Easy. Their goal was to stop some payload from reaching its destination, to intercept some illegal arms being sent through the States. Winston told them that if they could collect any information from some of the enemies, he would be appreciative. But even with McCree interrogating them in rapid fire Spanish, no new intel came about. It seems those sent to escort this payload were lowly lackeys, not entirely sure of what the grand scheme of things is. 

“If’n I had to guess, this was somethin’ from Los Muertos or Deadlock. Maybe both. They started workin’ together near the end of my time, so I can imagine they might be workin’ mighty close these days,” McCree says as they file onto the airlift. 

Hanzo admits he is somewhat surprised to hear that McCree was part of a gang, especially one so violent as Deadlock. While he’d never had official dealings with them as yakuza, when Hanzo found himself an  _ independent contractor _ in their territory, he’d seen the way the gang members would treat locals. He remembers seeing the Deadlock logo stickers placed in the windows of several businesses while the others, without the prominent logo display, often had broken windows boarded up with plywood. McCree was rough around the edges, and Hanzo knew that Blackwatch used some less-than-moral tactics, but Hanzo found it difficult to imagine McCree being  _ cruel _ , and cruel was putting Deadlock lightly. 

McCree seemed inherently  _ good _ to Hanzo. He must be losing his sense of judgement of character. 

He makes a mental note to ask Genji about McCree’s past, later.

As they board the ship and set down their supplies, McCree hums some sort of tune under his breath. Hanzo takes a seat at the end of the ship farthest away from the cockpit, not particularly in the mood to socialize with his teammates. It was a perfect time to start on his report. 

To his surprise, McCree plops into the seat next to Hanzo. The cowboy sits casually, lets his legs fall open slightly so that their thighs touch. The corner of McCree’s woollen serape, flaming scarlet, falls on top of Hanzo’s knee. Neither make a move to rearrange it. Hanzo feels McCree droop slightly and turns his head to look at the man. 

McCree pulled his hat over his eyes so Hanzo can’t see his face, arms crossed over his chest still covered with his breastplate. “‘M gonna take a lil’ nap on the ride home. Wake me when we get to base?”

Hanzo nods. He knows McCree can’t see him, but McCree doesn’t ask again. He turns his attention back to his comm and continues filling out his report to turn into Winston.

Once they are in the air at cruising speed, Hana approaches Hanzo cautiously, like one would approach a stray cat. Hanzo looks up from his tablet. The girl is twisting her hands nervously in front of her and her eyes are averted from Hanzo’s face as she says, “Sorry for this morning, Hanzo.” Her cheeks are slightly rosey.

“It is not a problem, Ms. Song. Angela told me you were very tired. I, too, say things I do not mean when I am exhausted.” Hanzo feels his lips curl upward and hope it comes off as a comforting smile, not a sneer.

Hana grins as he speaks. Her eyes shift to McCree’s still form beside Hanzo. McCree has slumped over so his weight is leaning on Hanzo’s left shoulder, and more of his serape covers Hanzo’s lap. “You can call me Hana, you know.”

“Of course,” Hanzo mutters quietly, wanting nothing more than for his conversation to be over before she mentions--

“Genji told us all not to bother you about soulmates, but I think you should talk to Jesse about it.”

Hanzo feels the smile fall from his face. He has to remember that Hana is barely more than a child--of course she will entertain thoughts about soulmates as often as she can. “Thank you for your concern, Hana.”

She frowns down at him, crosses her arms, and looks to McCree’s sleeping form once more. She moves her gaze back to Hanzo, gives him a pointed look with narrowed eyes, before she walks back to her seat beside Angela near the cockpit.

Hanzo’s fingers twitch as he pushes away the urge to grasp at the woollen material of McCree’s serape, to test what it feels like between his fingers.

-

The entire flight back to base, Hanzo thinks about what Hana said about Genji telling the rest of the agents not to mention soulmates around him. Beyond the fact that the agents obviously did not listen to the request, Hanzo wonders  _ why _ Genji would request this of them. When Hanzo had asked him all those years ago to not tell Hanzo if he’d met his soulmate, Genji adamantly refused at first. Only when Hanzo insisted it was for his soulmate’s safety did Genji relent--Hanzo wanted to  _ protect them, _ he’d said, from having to be with a future oyabun, from having to be tied to the yakuza for the rest of their days. Hanzo hadn’t mentioned it was for his own safety as well--if his enemies were to learn of a soulmate, they could be used against Hanzo when it came to business and negotiations. He wouldn’t allow such a thing.

Regardless, Hanzo was annoyed. He supposes he should feel at least a little grateful that Genji was honoring his wishes even all these years later, but more than anything he was pissed his younger brother had aired his personal business to the entire base without Hanzo’s express permission.

Not that it mattered, as Hanzo did not have a soulmate, anyway. Genji was being a little shit for the sake of annoying his older brother, not because he actually intended to protect Hanzo in any way.

When they finally land, Hanzo is determined to find Genji. Just as he is about to leave the ship, he remembers that he told McCree he’d wake the man up when they landed. He turns on his heel and shakes McCree awake. Once McCree grunts and starts to shift, Hanzo quickly slips out of the carrier and into the hangar, not wanting to face McCree. Some sense of embarrassment washes over him when he thinks about the fact that Genji thought it necessary to protect Hanzo, his older brother, obviously weak enough to need assistance. Hanzo didn’t want McCree to see him as  _ weak. _

(He tells himself it’s because he and McCree are slowly becoming friends, and Hanzo doesn’t want his friends to pity him.)

Hanzo makes his way through the dormitory hallways, heading in the direction of Genji’s quarters. He has not had a chance to enter his brother’s room, but Athena had provided Hanzo with a map of the entire base, including the dormitories, so he knew where to go at least. When he reaches Genji’s door, he does not hesitate before knocking three times. 

The door opens and Hanzo feels his eyebrows creep toward his hairline. Standing before him--floating, rather--is the omnic, Zenyatta, not his brother. Hanzo thinks back to the map of the base and does remember seeing that Zenyatta had his own quarters. There were a few rooms that had two names associated with them, like Angela and Fareeha, but Genji’s wasn’t one of them.

“Hanzo, what a pleasant surprise.” Zenyatta’s voice is smooth, metallic, synthetic, but Hanzo thinks he can hear a hint of a smile as he speaks. “You seem to be in a rush.”

“Have you seen Genji recently?” Hanzo cares not to be in the presence of the omnic right now. He supposes he should at some point get to know the one who is so intimately connected to his brother, but he does not even know his brother yet, not anymore--one step at a time. 

“He is meditating on the roof, currently.”

Hanzo sighs. “Will you let him know I wish to speak to him when you see him?”

“It seems urgent. Why do you not go see him yourself?” Zenyatta says, head tilting to the side. Hanzo thinks he might be looking over Hanzo’s shoulder at the pack still slung over his back.

“It is not urgent. I do not wish to bother him. I simply have a question for him; he seems to have shared with the base my personal affairs,” he says bitterly. He knows it isn’t the omnic’s fault, but Hanzo is frustrated and Zenyatta is the only one here to bear witness.

Hanzo turns on his heel, ready to get on with his day, but Zenyatta asks calmly, “Ah, is this regarding the soulmate issue?”

Shoulders stiffening, Hanzo takes a deep breath. “Do not concern yourself. I will find Genji later,” he spits, words like venom.

As he walks back to his own quarters to drop off his things, he hears Zenyatta’s internal fans whirring gently behind him.

-

“I heard you yelled at poor Zenny.”

Hanzo lowers his bow, arrow still nocked, and takes a deep breath. He does not know what time it is, nor does he know what time it was when they returned to base. After his conversation with Zenyatta, Hanzo dropped this things off at his room and immediately went down to shooting range 2. Athena has not made an attempt to stop him, so he knows it can’t have been that long. With a long suffering sigh, Hanzo peeks over his shoulder to see McCree leaning against the doorframe of the entrance, looking at Hanzo with an amused smirk on his face. “I did not  _ yell _ . I am simply frustrated the other agents continue to stick their nose in my personal matters.”

McCree rocks on to the balls of his feet, settles back on his heels. “Overwatch has always been pretty close-knit. When you have to trust people with your life, you tend to treat them like family. Family always does have a way of weaselin’ into your business.”

Obviously McCree is not going to leave Hanzo be. Hanzo turns to face McCree fully and walks over to a nearby bench to place Storm Bow back into its case. “My family never gave this much attention to  _ soulmates. _ ” The word tastes sour in his mouth. 

Several emotions seem to pass over McCree’s face in an instant--surprise, frustration, sadness--and then his features fall back into carefully crafted neutrality. “Soulmates, huh? That’s what’s got you so riled up you’re harassin’ a monk?” The cowboy takes a few steps toward Hanzo but he remains several feet away. “I myself don’t pay much mind to the whole soulmate business.”

Hanzo closes his bow’s case with a definitive click. He looks up at McCree with one eyebrow raised, displaying his curiosity but not voicing his questions, should McCree not wish to share. 

McCree raises a hand and scratches his cheek nervously. “I think this conversation would benefit from some adult beverages, if it’s all the same to you.”

While he’d hoped this wouldn’t lead to a whole conversation, Hanzo could definitely go for a drink. He grins wickedly up at McCree in reply. 

“Oh honey, I’ve got somethin’ so strong it’ll knock your socks off.” McCree’s eyes widen a fraction. He looks down at Hanzo’s prosthetics, back up, and says, “Er, it’ll knock your prosthetics off, anyhow.”

A terribly unbecoming snort forces its way out of Hanzo’s mouth before he can stop it. 

McCree grins at him and says, “One of these days I’ll getcha to laugh for real.” He turns and motions for Hanzo to follow.

Somehow Hanzo always finds himself trailing behind McCree, never once fighting to take the lead for the first time in his life. 

He doesn’t mind it.

-

McCree’s room isn’t what Hanzo expects. Though, he supposes, McCree has surprised him at every turn. It would be best to stop assuming when it comes to this cowboy, who is much more of an enigma than Hanzo ever could have imagined upon first meeting. 

The room is more sparse than he pictured, not a single piece of southwestern paraphernalia present. Beyond the standard-issue furniture Hanzo has in his own room, a large highlighter yellow bean bag rests next to the coffee table. The seams are almost coming apart, small white pellets peeking out from some of them. Everything else looks the same as Hanzo’s spartan room, though the floorplan is mirrored from his own. 

“It ain’t much, but I ain’t exactly have a whole lotta space for decorations while I was on the run.” McCree motions for Hanzo to take a seat. 

Hanzo delicately sits on the couch, folding his feet underneath him. “You were on the run?”

McCree digs around in his closet and pulls out a large canvas bag. “Yeah, didn’t Genji tell ya? I’m a wanted man. Real wanted, if my bounty has anythin’ to say about it,” he says casually, as if having headhunters conspire to kill you is everyday conversation. He gives a little ‘ah-ha!’ of triumph as he withdraws what looks to be a large mason jar full of clear liquid from the bag he was rifling through. He pulls out a few more and sets them onto the coffee table in front of Hanzo. 

“How much is your bounty?” Hanzo asks, eyes following all of McCree’s movements. The jars do not have any labels on them. 

“Why? Lookin’ to turn me in? Take the money n’ run?” The cowboy grins toothily at Hanzo as he starts pouring the mysterious liquid into two cups. 

Taking one of the offered cups, Hanzo scoffs. “I have no need for money.” Over the rim of his cup, he smirks. “I simply wanted to compare the value of our lives. The price on my head is nothing to laugh at, either.”

“I ain’t invite you here for a dick measurin’ contest, but by all means, remove your pants at your leisure.”

Completely scandalized, Hanzo spits, “I will not divest myself!”

McCree just chuckles and takes a sip of his drink. “It’s a turn o’ phrase, darlin’.”

Hanzo grunts and decides to try whatever mysterious liquid McCree has offered him. Since the other man has taken a sip, it can’t be poison, he reasons. Though McCree does not exactly have a clean record of offering drinks to Hanzo, he thinks bitterly as he recalls the atrocity that was sweet tea.

Alas, surely this is poison. He barely resists the urge to spit the offending liquid back into the cup, but does not wish to tarnish his already barren reputation in front of McCree.

Either Hanzo has lost his ability to retain a straight face or McCree is the most perceptive man Hanzo has met, because the cursed cowboy just laughs. “That there is moonshine, straight from the depths of Satan’s armpit.” McCree lets out a hearty groan as he plops onto the beanbag, just on the other side of the coffee table from Hanzo. He looks up at his companion slyly, lids heavy, as he says, “60 million, by the way.” Another gulp from his cup.

Hanzo raises one eyebrow. His eyes remain locked with McCree’s as he purposefully swallows down a mouthful of the alcohol,  _ moonshine _ , as McCree calls it. It does taste like something that could only be excreted from a devil’s unsavory body part. “What a pity. It hardly compares to 15 billion yen.”

McCree tips his head back, hair brushing over his shoulders with the motion. He laughs heartily and his whole body shakes. Hanzo grins down at him in response and takes another sip. 

The two sit like that for some time, drinking from their respective cups and refilling as needed. Before long, the entire jar is empty and McCree spins open the top of another. “I never met my soulmate,” he says as he leans back into the bean bag. 

“I have not, either. I do not believe I have one.” Hanzo takes a large gulp of the moonshine before continuing, “After all I have done, I cannot imagine fate deems me worthy of my other half.”

McCree chuckles sardonically. “Then, honey, there is no way I have one either. I’ve done some things that’ll put your dirty deeds right to shame.”

“You have done worse than kill your own kin?” The words escape before he can contain them. Hanzo thinks he might be drunk for a second night in a row, though his head feels cottony in a way sake does not deliver.

McCree gives Hanzo a funny look. There’s no other way to describe it, really. Hanzo’s head feels like deadweight and he doesn’t have the ability to decipher the other man’s stupidly handsome face. “You know I was in Deadlock, yeah?” Hanzo thinks he nods his head as he raises his cup to his lips again. “You’ve seen what they can do. I was right there, in the thick of it all. I even got to a pretty high rankin’ position before Reyes and the rest of Blackwatch busted us on a heist. Reyes told me it’s jail or Blackwatch. Figured workin’ for the good guys oughtta be better ‘n jail.” He gets a far away look on his face, eyes glazed with more than just alcohol. “In a lotta ways it was better, but in some ways it was worse. Genji ever tell you about it?”

“Very little,” Hanzo says, leaning forward so his elbows rest on his knees, intrigued. “I know they were the special operations unit in the old Overwatch. They were kept out of the public eye.”

The cowboy’s lips curl upward, and Hanzo can’t tell if it’s sad or a grimace or happy. “Yeah, we weren’t the kind to be paradin’ around on TV. We did the dirty work of Overwatch, I guess you could say. Our commander, Reyes, he… always had good intentions, but was a ‘the end justifies the means’ kinda guy. As you can imagine, that kinda thought leads to some pretty nasty means.”

Not knowing what to say, anticipating that McCree isn’t finished, Hanzo simply nods and takes another swig of drink.

“I left Blackwatch before it got too bad. ‘Fore the Geneva incident.” McCree sighs deeply and Hanzo swears he can feel the breath all the way to his bones. “Sometimes I think it’s worse I didn’t see it all the way through. I could’a helped Reyes. But I was a coward. Fate ain’t gonna reward a coward with a soulmate.”

The two are quiet for a while again, drinking and drinking and drinking until they finish off another two jars full of moonshine. For a brief moment Hanzo thinks that this could be boring, that maybe McCree doesn’t think they have anything to talk about together and this impending friendship is a mistake. But they’re both sitting quietly, limbs loosened by alcohol, and Hanzo feels fine. Comfortable, even.

“Y’ain’t a man of many words, are ya, darlin’?”

It’s not accusatory--at least, not to Hanzo’s inebriated ears. There’s a silly smile plastered on McCree’s face and he’s looking at Hano with a dopey look in his eyes and Hanzo’s heart flutters beneath his rib cage. He’s not not-talking because he doesn’t want to, he just doesn’t know what to say right now. He agrees with McCree--not that the cowboy doesn’t deserve a soulmate, no, of course not, he would never think that about someone--but he  _ understands. _ All the reasons McCree doesn’t have another half, that’s why Hanzo doesn’t, but maybe it is worse, maybe it’s not. He’s no god and it’s obvious he can’t judge a person’s character to save his life these days, not able to tell the  _ danger _ that lurks within McCree. 

Hanzo means to say something like that, but less word-vomit-y, but instead he hears himself say, “People tell me I still have time to meet my soulmate,” and he hates it because he wants to get to  _ know _ McCree outside of this stupid conversation about soulmates. But this whole thing is happening because Hanzo brought up soulmates back in the range, so it’s his fault and he is grasping at straws to stay in McCree’s presence.

McCree just chuckles, takes a sip of his moonshine. He pulls the cup away from his mouth and scowls into it, shaking it back and forth. He leans over to the coffee table to refill the cup. As he does, he says, “Yeah, I’ve hear that run around, too.” He pauses, takes a huge gulp of the alcohol--Hanzo  _ doesn’t  _ watch his Adam’s apple bob appetizingly beneath the thin skin of his throat--and then continues, “I know the statistics, though. Don’t meet ‘em by the time you’re 35, you’ve got such a small chance of ever gettin’ to make that connection it’s nearly impossible. ‘Sides, I ain’t wanna put someone through the hardship of bein’ stuck with a soldier. Or someone with a $60 million bounty on their head.”

Before his jell-o brain can parse through the potential consequences, Hanzo blurts out, “What if your soulmate is also a soldier?” and McCree gives him that same funny look from earlier, except this time his head tilts to the side and Hanzo thinks he looks like a very, very cute dog. “Or if they have a $100 million bounty on their head?” Hanzo isn’t sure of the current USD to yen conversion, but his alcohol-laden brain things that’s an approximate conversion for 15 billion yen.

McCree gazes at Hanzo from his spot on the floor, some weird look in his eye that Hanzo can’t place, not through the hazy cloud of alcohol floating around in his headspace. Then, the cowboy laughs, even harder than earlier, hands clutching at his stomach, head tilted back so far his hat falls off. Hanzo feels his mouth fall open in a soft ‘o’ shape, but he can’t bring himself to join in on this little giggle fit because he doesn’t know what’s so funny. 

Eventually, McCree comes to and places his hat back on his head, free hand wiping away a tear from his eye. “Damn honey, I ain’t never thought of that.” 

McCree smiles up at Hanzo, all shiny pearly white teeth, and Hanzo notices the sharpness of his canines--he briefly imagines feeling those pointy teeth scraping against the skin of his neck and shudders, and where the  _ fuck _ did that thought come from? Heat rises to his cheeks and Hanzo’s throat is suddenly quite parched, so he does the only logical thing there is to do in this situation--chug the rest of his cup of moonshine.

The cowboy chuckles again from his spot on the bean bag chair. “You got the prettiest blush I ever did see, Hanzo.”


	6. a real hand-wavey time skip!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> so uhhhh Merry Christmas (and Happy Holidays to those who do not celebrate Christmas!)!!!!! i've had this ready for a few days and it's been eating me up inside to not post sooooo here y'all are!
> 
> WARNING: Mentions of puking/vomiting due to excessive alcohol intake. It isn't graphic, but if you're especially sensitive, I would suggest skipping over the first ten or so paragraphs.
> 
> Since i'm posting today, I will *NOT* be posting on Friday! (..........probably. i could potentially be convinced ( ͡° ͜ʖ ͡°) )

Colors--purple, yellow, green--swirl together behind his eyelids, mixing together like an oil slick. Blood vessels pound, fit to burst, beneath his temples, and oh--his stomach gurgles and lurches until it feels like it’s ready to spill right out of his body. He opens his eyes and winces--the sun is shining directly onto his face between the open slits of the blinds on a window Hanzo knows is not his. Somewhat regretfully, Hanzo sits up and has to grip the blanket resting over his legs to ground himself so he doesn’t vomit all over himself. Groggily, he takes a look around and does not immediately recognize where he is--it might be easier if his ears did not feel stuffed full of cotton. His eyes burn, like his corneas are made of lava. He spots the neon yellow bean bag chair in the corner of the room, now fitted with one cowboy-sized dent in the middle and remembers that he spent the night with McCree--

_ Oh gods _ he spent the night with McCree.

He quickly raises the blanket to see that he still has all his clothes on and his prosthetics are still attached to his knees. He sighs with relief. He hasn’t completely ruined his relationship with McCree. Yet. 

The relief he feels over having not slept with someone he might consider a friend is short-lived however, as Hanzo feels bile climbing up his throat. He tears the blanket away from his body and practically sprints over to the tiny door of the bathroom. As he falls to his knees, he opens the lid of the toilet, and then he’s emptying the contents of his stomach into the porcelain throne. He vaguely registers the locks slipping from the ribbon loosely tied at the back of his head and hopes he doesn’t get any vomit in his hair. Once Hanzo is sure he has to have puked his entire body weight, he leans back slightly. He looks down and sees that his hands are clutching the sides of the toilet and it must look like he’s hugging the damn thing. 

Of course the universe could not let Hanzo catch a break, even a tiny one, because soon enough McCree walks through the door and kneels down next to Hanzo. The cowboy rubs a hand soothingly across the broad plane of Hanzo’s back. Hanzo can’t help but groan. “Leave me,” he grunts, squeezing his eyes shut as the sound of his own voice sends a ripple of pain through his already pounding head. 

“Aw, sweetheart, we’ve all had a bad hangover or two. Or a hundred. I ain’t one to judge.” McCree speaks softly, barely above a whisper, trying to save Hanzo from some pain. 

It doesn’t really work. Hanzo groans again and then there is somehow still something left inside his body as he leans over the toilet once more. He feels a hand run through his hair, pulling the strands away from his face, and barely registers deft hands re-tying the ribbon to keep everything in place. Once his hair is properly tied back, Hanzo feels a warm hand drop to one of his thighs. 

Eventually he leans back, fully releasing the toilet from his grasp. His back hits the wall and he tilts his head back against it, keeping his eyes shut. He reaches a hand up to pinch the bridge of his nose. “I apologize, McCree.”

“C’mon now, I think we’re familiar enough you can call me Jesse, darlin’.” With one last soothing circle and a light pat, the man removes his hand from Hanzo’s thigh. Hanzo has to resist the urge to whine at the loss of contact.

“Then, I apologize, Jesse.” Hanzo sighs and opens his eyes. Thankfully the lights are still off in the tiny bathroom. His mouth feels dry and cottony. “I am in a sad state, currently. You should not have to witness a grown man suffer from drinking too much--”

“Nonsense,” McCree-- _ Jesse-- _ says with a light chuckle. “I know I hate bein’ alone when I’m hungover. Think you can stomach some coffee, sweetpea?”

_ Sweetpea. _ That’s a new one. 

Hanzo nods once, realizing quickly that the motion makes a wave of nausea wash over him. He begins to stand and finds he’s quite wobbly--sleeping with his prosthetics attached tends to leave him unstable on his feet on a good day, let alone when he drank enough last night to fill the Shinano River. Thankfully--Hanzo will be of sound mind later to properly feel embarrassed about needing help--Jesse steadies him by pulling Hanzo into his side, metal hand gripping Hanzo’s hip. 

“Woah there, darlin’. Watch your step, now,” Jesse mutters quietly under his breath as he leads Hanzo back into the main portion of the cowboy’s quarters. 

Hanzo is about to nod, but remembers the wave of nausea the motion caused him not 30 seconds ago and instead utters a quiet “yes” under his breath. 

Jesse continues guiding him all the way to the couch. The cowboy turns his head to look at Hanzo and motions toward the piece of furniture, one eyebrow raised, a silent “ _ This okay? _ ” and Hanzo doesn’t know what else to do but say yes again. 

The cushions feel absolutely wonderful as they nearly suck him into their upholstered abyss. Jesse hands him a smooth, black matte mug--the one Hanzo normally drinks from. The porcelain feels warm underneath his shaky fingertips. Hanzo hesitantly takes a sip--though he said he was fine enough to drink coffee, he isn’t so sure. But his stomach doesn’t lurch when the scent of a light, mild roast reaches his nose, so he figures it might be okay. 

And… wow. 

Whatever liquid is in this cup is absolute magnificence. Hanzo thinks he might still be drunk. Perhaps the taste of even the swill the base has to offer is better than that of lingering vomit on his tongue. Either way, he quickly takes several gulps without so much as breathing between them, letting the dark liquid burn its way down his already sore esophagus. 

“Where did you get this coffee?” Hanzo asks, not trying to mask the suspicion in his voice. 

Jesse looks at him, that funny look in his eye that Hanzo can’t decipher because his temples are still thudding away, and chuckles lightly. “From the kitchen, o’ course.”

“That is swill. Utter garbage.” Hanzo narrow his eyes and takes another sip. He pretends he doesn’t hear the pleased grumble that sounds from low in his chest, almost like a purr. 

Thankfully, Jesse also ignores it. The cowboy says, “I got a secret stash of the good stuff.” He grins conspiratorily. “I can show ya my hidin’ place. It’ll be our little secret.”

“Perhaps it is best I do not know. I fear too much coffee will not be good for keeping a steady hand on the battlefield.”

Jesse lets out a soft ‘hm’ while he takes a swig from his own mug. He snaps the fingers of his unoccupied hand and grins down at Hanzo. “Guess that just means I’ll have to make you a cup of my finest every mornin’, then. Can’t have ya drinkin’ that--what did you call it-- ‘swill.’ Only the most splended for you, darlin’.”

It’s all Hanzo can do to chug the last dregs of the coffee from his cup. He stands and starts to move toward the door, hoping the heat burning the tips of his ears is his imagination only. He clears his throat awkwardly. “Yes, well, I will… go. Now. I need to… shower.”

Jesse’s gaze momentarily moves away from Hanzo’s eyes to look at the archer’s ears, then his attention snaps back to Hanzo’s face. He grins, eyebrows raised nearly to his hairline. “Sure thing, honey. When you’re done, what say you we head into town for the finest hangover eggs Gibraltar has to offer?”

“Hangover... eggs?”

“Yeah, hangover eggs. You either throw ‘em all up and feel better, or you keep ‘em down and your stomach settles all nice.” Jesse’s grin only grows wider. 

Hanzo’s brows furrow once again. He steps closer to the door. The handle is almost in his grasp now. “You wish to induce me to vomit?”

“Nah, that’s what makes these eggs  _ special. _ I ain’t never puked up these eggs. Even when I’ve had two jars o’ that moonshine all on my own.” Jesse’s eyes trail down Hanzo’s body, back up. “Though I dare say you damn near had that much to yourself last night.”

The heat from his embarrassment travels up his cheeks. He turns to face the door, away from Jesse, before the cowboy can see how little control Hanzo currently has over his own body. “Yes, well. I shall see you, Jesse.” Hanzo rushes out the door and scurries down the hall to his own quarters. He realizes he is only three doors down from Jesse’s room--something he frankly should have noticed earlier, when he was studying the maps Athena provided him with. 

Once inside his own room, he sets the mug on the coffee table and lets out a heavy sigh. He begins stripping out of his clothes, suddenly feeling the grime that comes with spending the night in worn clothes and puking your internal organs out. He’s glad there are so few agents currently recruited, as there is no need to put any personnel in the rooms without en-suite bathrooms. Communal showers are efficient, Hanzo cannot deny, but aren’t the most comfortable. Especially when he’s in such a sorry state--beyond the hangover. 

His heart hammers in his rib cage, his blood running hot and fast through his veins. His thigh tingles where Jesse rested his hand earlier and little pinpricks tickle at his back where Jesse rubbed soothing circles. Even the skin of his scalp crawls with the ghost-touch of gentle cowboy hands past. 

Hanzo spends extra time in his--frankly, too hot--shower scrubbing at those parts, willing away the lingering sensation of Jesse’s calming touch. 

He doesn’t know why it’s getting to him so much. Nothing about the way Jesse touched him was remotely sexual--Hanzo was puking into the man’s toilet. Jesse was simply being kind. And here Hanzo is, relishing in the aftereffects of the light, gentle touches. There was no intimate connotation, and yet… Hanzo’s muddled brain is telling him that it was.

This whole thing makes it impossible for Hanzo to reconcile his feelings for Jesse into passing attraction. This is the most Jesse has touched him, the most intimate they’d been--before this morning, they’d never so much as brushed fingers. And yet Hanzo doesn’t feel the tell-tale curl of warmth low in his gut signalling desire to escalate things to sexual territory. Sure enough, when Hanzo glances downward, all he’s met with is flaccid, limp flesh. 

But those spots where Jesse brushed against Hanzo are still on fire. 

Hanzo grunts and turns the knob for hot water even higher. Might as well set the rest of his body on fire to drown it all out, he supposes.

When Hanzo steps out of the shower several minutes later, he is still hyper-aware of the places Jesse’s hands once touched him. He ignores the sensation, opting to change into clean clothes and rest on his own bed before having to face the rest of the day. He sees the notification light is blinking lazily on his comm, so he picks the tablet up. 

_ New Message from Agent McCree: _ _  
_ _ 08:24 _ _  
_ _ [McCree]: I’m telling you, these are the best eggs you’ll ever have in your life.  _

Hanzo can’t help the small smile that creeps onto his face. He hastily types a reply. 

_ 08:32 _ _  
_ _ [Sent]: Do not oversell, cowman. _

The tablet pings in his hands almost immediately. 

_ 08:32 _ _  
_ _ [McCree]: Wouldn’t dream of it, darlin _

Before Hanzo can finish his own reply, a second message comes in. 

_ [McCree]: Meet me in the courtyard when you’re ready for me to blow your pretty little mind _

Hanzo absolutely does not rush to finish getting ready, doesn’t spend an extra few minutes checking to make sure his hair is presentable. He also does not slip on his nicest fitting low v-neck shirt over his most worn pair of jeans because he wants to impress Jesse--he simply wishes to be comfortable. His head is still pounding, so of course he does not want to fuss with his more traditional clothing. 

(Hanzo is an excellent liar, but even he is not able to convince himself of these fibs in this moment.)

Hanzo, satisfied with his appearance, makes his way out of his room and to the other side of the building, near the kitchen. He hears voices coming from the kitchen area, so he ducks into a side hall and out a door that leads to the courtyard, not wanting to face anyone right now. 

As Hanzo walks closer to the picnic table he normally eats lunch at, he spies not one but two figures sitting at the small table. One is undeniably Jesse--the beige cowboy hat is striking even from this distance, impossible to miss. Hanzo feels his heart give a little stutter and resolutely ignores the implications. 

The other figure, however, makes Hanzo’s heart stutter for an entirely different reason. The morning sun glints off Genji’s metal body. It is true Hanzo has warmed to having Genji around again--their little dinner in Hanzo’s quarters did wonders to smother Hanzo’s hardened feelings toward his brother. But seeing Genji and Jesse sitting together and talking, laughing intermittently, Hanzo’s chest aches. Between the three jars of moonshine they’d shared the previous night, Hanzo hadn’t found the courage to ask Jesse about his… relationship with Genji. Another wave of nausea washes over Hanzo as he watches the two interact from the shadows for several more minutes. 

(Hanzo hears Jesse call Genji ‘darlin’’ no less than three times in the 79 seconds he stands behind a small tree, eavesdropping.)

((It’s incredibly petty of him, but Hanzo thinks  _ But Jesse doesn’t call  _ Genji  _ sweetpea. _ ))

Hanzo could turn around right now, march back to his own quarters, and pretend he fell asleep. He never promised Jesse that he would meet at the courtyard to go into town for eggs. He could easily get himself out of this mess before--

A twig snaps under his foot as he shifts his weight, ready to move back to his room and Hanzo curses under his breath. 

“Hanzo, that you?” Jesse’s smooth southern drawl calls out, wraps around the rough bark of the tree Hanzo  _ isn’t _ hiding behind, because grown men do not hide from their problems.

With a deep sigh, Hanzo removes himself from the base of the tree. Head held high, he approaches the picnic table. “Greetings.”

Jesse’s face lights up, his grin morphing into a sweet, smaller smile. “Ready to get a move on, partner?”

Before Hanzo can respond, Genji speaks. “Are you two going somewhere? Your names are not on a mission roster.”

“Nah, we’re headin’ into town. Your big brother here has a nasty hangover and I’m gonna show him the wonder of Mama Maya’s eggs,” Jesse fills in before Genji can verbally air the presumptions Hanzo is sure the cyborg is making in his head right now. 

Genji has his faceplates still firmly attached to his head, but Hanzo can practically feel his younger brother’s eyebrows raise, partly in surprise, partly in mockery. “Really? You got my brother drunk last night, did you, Jesse?” The innuendo is evident in his voice. 

Hanzo’s ears burn. “Absolutely not--”

“Well, I certainly didn’t pour that moonshine down his throat.” Jesse chuckles lightly, shaking his head as he stands from the bench and moves over to Hanzo. He places his hand on Hanzo’s lower back, palm warm even through the material of Hanzo’s t-shirt. “C’mon, it ain’t too far. You’ll be alright walkin’ even though you slept with your prosthetics last night?”

Hanzo lets himself be guided by the cowboy, ignoring Genji’s presence altogether. “I have suffered worse.” He is glad they take the long way out of the base, choosing to stick to the outdoor path instead of strolling through the building. The last thing his already shattered dignity needs is to be paraded past the agents in the kitchen.

“I ain’t want ya to suffer at all, sweetpea.” Jesse clicks his tongue. “I could carry you if it means alleviatin’ your sufferin’. You’re probably light as a feather.” Sadly, Hanzo cannot tell if the man is joking or not.

Hanzo scoffs. No one had called him  _ light _ . Though he is a bit lacking in height, his rigorous training leaves him with lots of muscle, hard and heavy. But Hanzo lets Jesse have this, if only because Hanzo’s head still hurts and he can’t find the energy to argue. He simply shakes his head in response and continues walking next to Jesse.

Jesse talks at Hanzo the entire walk to wherever this  _ Mama Maya _ is. It’s not long, only about 20 minutes. Still, Hanzo’s knees ache, the area where skin meets prosthetic throbbing slightly with every step. 

Suffice it to say, he is glad when Jesse brightly says, “We’re here!” Jesse steps in front of Hanzo and pulls open the door to what looks like a cliche diner reminiscent of the 1950s. “After you, sweetpea.”

Hanzo nods and steps into the restaurant. In front of the hostess podium is a sign that says SEAT YOURSELF in both English and Spanish--Hanzo assumes it’s Spanish, anyway. Once again, Jesse rests a hand on Hanzo’s lower back and leads him to a booth tucked into the corner of the restaurant. 

“The magic eggs only work if you’re sittin’ at this table while you eat ‘em,” Jesse says by way of explanation as the two slide into the booth, one on each side of the table. 

Hanzo feels pieces of ripped vinyl dig into the backs of his thighs through his jeans. “It seems these eggs only ‘work’ circumstantially. Their magical abilities seem unlikely at this rate.”

Jesse just chuckles and pics up a laminated menu. “I can sense your distrust from here. But if I wanted to make ya puke I would’a just spiked your coffee with some ipecac.”

“Epi… kack?” Hanzo sounds out the unfamiliar word as he watches Jesse’s honey eyes scan the menu in front of him. “I am not familiar with this word.”

“Well, ya see--”

Whatever Jesse is about to say next is interrupted by a waitress dressed in a pin-striped shirt and faded blue jeans approaches their table. Her nametag reads Luciana. She says something in rapid fire Spanish, smiling down at the two of them, though she pointedly directs her words at Jesse.

Jesse smiles at Hanzo over the top of his menu before turning to face the waitress. He says something in response with that charming grin on his face and she laughs at him, swats him playfully on the shoulder. Jesse looks back at Hanzo and winks, pointing to something on the menu in front of him while continuing to speak to the waitress,  _ Luciana, _ in Spanish. Hanzo notes that the way he speaks seems different than Luciana’s, the vowels longer and said almost lazily in comparison to the sharp syllables spilling from the waitress’s lips. 

They exchange words for a few moments and Hanzo quells the feeling of being left out--Spanish is not one of the four languages he is fluent in. Perhaps it will be next. The way the sounds slip from Jesse’s mouth are nigh  _ sinful _ and Hanzo wants him to talk like that all the time--no more of that ridiculous southern drawl. He shakes off the foolish thought--Spanish is a romance language anyway, he justifies, so it’s supposed to make you feel that way.

(With his head still pounding and his stomach growling angrily once more, Hanzo can almost believe the lies he tells himself.)

During some point of Hanzo’s pointless thought puddle, the waitress walks away from them and Jesse turns back to Hanzo. “I went ahead ‘n ordered for us. I gotcha vanilla coffee--it’ll change your whole damn world view, darlin’, just you wait.”

Hanzo nods and slides the menu away from him. Not that he was able to read it, anyway. 

“Awright, lemme just see here…” Jesse wedges his fingers into a little bowl holding two rows of small jelly packets, flicking through them, concentration clear on his face--his tongue pokes out of his mouth just slightly and Hanzo  _ can’t look away _ . Eventually--Hanzo swears he isn’t staring, rapt, at that little pink appendage--Jesse pulls out one of the jelly packets triumphantly. Concord grape. He sets it on the table, label-side down. “You ready to lose?”

Hanzo doesn’t know what to say suddenly his throat is dry and  _ where is that waitress with the coffee already-- _

And then Jesse touches the index finger of his right hand to his thumb and  _ flicks _ the jelly across the table. It spins no less than four times and lands about two inches from the edge of the table in front of Hanzo. 

“Damn, so close!” 

Hanzo  _ really  _ does not know what is happening. The cogs in his brain are turning but nothing makes sense to him and his temples are still throbbing slightly, though his stomach has decided to settle for the time being.

“C’mon, doll, flick it back.” Jesse is giving Hanzo that stupid, dopey smile across the booth and Hanzo really doesn’t know what to do.

So he raises his own hand and imitates Jesse’s motion, flicking the jelly across the table with way too much force. The plastic container flies right off the edge of the table and lands on the seat next to Jesse.

Jesse chuckles and grabs the packet, placing it facedown on the table once more. “See? Harder than you think. I’m a master at this.” He flicks the jelly across the table just hard enough that a small corner hangs off the edge, but the packet does not fall off the flat surface. “Yes! One point to the reigning champion Jesse McCree. Now pass that back, I get a free shot for two points.”

Numbly, Hanzo picks up the jelly packet and wordlessly hands it back to the cowboy. 

Sure enough, Jesse puts the packet back down and takes another shot. This time, it lands less than an inch away from the edge. “Damn!” Jesse snaps his fingers and sighs, throwing himself back against the booth seat dramatically. “Y’alright there, Han? Seem a little, uh, spacey.”

Hanzo shakes his head minutely and leans forward, poising his fingers in the middle of one edge of the jelly container. “I was unsure of the goal of this game, but I understand.” He smirks, looking up at Jesse through his lashes. “You will lose today, ‘reigning champion’ Jesse McCree.” He flicks the packet across the table with complete concentration. 

The jelly slides across the table quickly, so quickly Hanzo thinks he might have miscalculated, but then the packet slows in its path until nearly a third of it hangs off the edge and the whole thing stops. 

Jesse stares down at the jelly with his mouth hanging open in an ‘o’ shape for a moment before gathering himself. He chuckles, the sound low and rumbly and pleasing to Hanzo’s ears, and slides it back to Hanzo’s side. “Try as you might. I call that beginner’s luck.”

“Luck has never been in my favor,” Hanzo mutters as he aligns his next shot. He takes a moment to determine the best way to score--this time it will be worth two points, according to Jesse’s previous statement. Letting go of the breath held in his lungs, Hanzo takes the shot. The packet slides into almost the exact same position as before, one third hanging over the edge but the packet stationary on the table. Hanzo basks in the shocked look on Jesse’s face for a moment before continuing, “The score is now three to one, in favor of Shimada Hanzo.”

Jesse lets out a low whistle and leans forward, hand raised to table-level. He mutters something under his breath. Hanzo thinks he says, “I’ll show you ‘in favor of Shimada Hanzo,’” but with pain still rippling through his head he can’t be sure. 

As Jesse takes his shot, the jelly packet sliding too quickly across the slick surface of the table, Luciana returns to their table and sets down two mugs. She clicks her tongue and says something to Jesse, shaking her head. Her voice sounds fond, admonishing. Jesse shoots something back in a low voice, his cheeks flushing slightly as his eyes drift from her face over to Hanzo’s briefly. The cowboy offers a small smile to Hanzo before his attention reverts to the waitress for one last sentence, and then she walks away from them once more. 

The jelly packet falls into Hanzo’s lap. 

“Say, partner, you ain’t happen to speak Spanish do ya?” Jesse asks nervously, index finger scratching at his cheek--the second time the cowboy has done so, Hanzo notes. His cheeks are still tinted a light rose.

Hanzo shakes his head and raises the mug to his lips, taking a slow sip. The liquid burns his upper lip, but the flavor that coats his tongue is  _ incredible. _ He’s had plenty of shoddy diner coffees, and none have come even remotely close to this. How had he never tried flavoured coffee before? 

“Told ya it’s great, didn’t I?” Jesse grins from ear to ear. He rests his chin in the palm of his mechanical hand, body completely lax. “Here I thought you were mysterious, hard to read. But really you’re an open book.”

“Pardon?” Trying to remain as calm as possible, Hanzo schools his features and takes another sip from his coffee. He is collected. He has been trained to show as little emotion as possible--emotions can be manipulated by others. They are nothing but a weakness.

Shaking his head, Jesse drinks from his own cup. An overexaggerated sigh. “Nah, don’t go all blank on me, darlin’. It ain’t a bad thing. Hell nah, I like seein’ ya smile.”

Perhaps Hanzo  _ is _ lucky, because their waitress stops at their table and deposits two plates in front of them, saving Hanzo from having to respond to that ridiculous comment. 

The plate set in front of Hanzo is completely covered in food; scrambled eggs piled high, two slices of what look to be ham, a few strips of bacon, and a potato patty the size of his hand. Across the table, Jesse’s plate looks identical. 

“Alright, you ready for the best breakfast experience of your life?” Jesse drawls, lifting a fork and knife, face positively  _ bright _ with excitement.

Hanzo doesn’t say  _ It’s already been the best breakfast simply because I can spend it with you _ , but he thinks it. Ignoring that absolutely ridiculous train of thought, Hanzo grunts quietly and digs in to his own meal, choosing to take a bite of the ‘magic’ eggs first. 

They are the best eggs Hanzo has ever eaten, without a doubt. 

Again, it’s possible everything tastes better simply because his stomach is tumbling around in his gut and the taste of bile still lingers in the back of his throat. 

He doesn’t know what face he’s making, but it must be  _ something _ because Jesse is suspiciously quiet. Hanzo looks up at the cowboy across from him and sees Jesse smiling at him, all bright white teeth. The man chuckles before cutting off a slice of ham and eats it. Hanzo keeps eating and he can’t stop, everything on the plate is so terrible for the body but so fantastic on his tongue. His head still pounds, lightly now, but Hanzo barely notices.

“So,” Jesse starts, mouth still full of food. He swallows, then continues, “You don’t use guns, you said?”

“I do not normally.” Hanzo lifts a piece of bacon to his lips, but before he takes a bite he says, “I have been trained with many weapons, however. It was a necessity.”

“Right, but do you know how to handle one like  _ I _ do?” Jesse lifts his greasy butter knife to point at himself for emphasis. 

Hanzo smirks. “Have you ever shot an arrow?” he asks, instead of deigning the--probably rhetorical--question with an answer.

“‘Course I have!” Jesse scoffs, mock offended. 

“Really.” Scoffing, Hanzo continues cutting his ham slices into equal-sized bites, skeptical.

“Really!” Jesse sets down his silverware with a loud  _ clank _ . “I once went to a day camp and took a whole archery class.”

The image of a small, adolescent McCree with tiny cowboy boots and a tiny cowboy hat gripping a bow much larger than himself is too much for Hanzo to handle. The boy was probably a terror to the instructor, likely shooting with too much enthusiasm and not enough restraint. A quiet laugh bubbles out of Hanzo’s chest at the image before he can think to stop it. 

Jesse’s smile returns, this time no teeth, just an upturn of lips and a softening of those honey colored eyes. “Never did take to it, of course. I prefer havin’ one hand free while I shoot.”

Hanzo coughs into his fist awkwardly, trying to shake off the laugh that escaped him. “And why would you need one hand free?” 

Immediately, Jesse’s smirk turns into a full-blown,  _ sinister _ grin and Hanzo regrets asking. He’s fallen into Jesse’s trap. Jesse lifts his right hand as if raising Peacekeeper, then lifts his left hand and shoots Hanzo with a wink and a fucking finger gun. 

Finger gun.

Hanzo shakes his head and goes back to eating his breakfast. “Ridiculous cowman.”

* * *

The next morning, Hanzo wakes to his alarm blaring at 5:00 AM. Blessedly, no remnants of a hangover. His head feels light, clear. With a sense of freedom--freed from the pains of too much alcohol consumption--Hanzo showers and dresses, ties his hair with a gold ribbon, ignores thoughts of his… not-date with Jesse yesterday, brushes his teeth, makes his bed, pushes away mental images of Jesse smiling at him so sweetly, checks the clock, finally makes his way out of his room toward the kitchen all while pretending he isn’t wishing Jesse had put his hand on his back again on their walk back to the Watchpoint. 

As he steps through the threshold of the kitchen, Hanzo takes note of all agents present--Reinhardt, Brigitte, Torbjorn, and--

“Jesse?”

Said man turns from the stove where he’s poking at something that smells absolutely  _ divine _ . “Hanzo! I was told you were mighty punctual.” Jesse leans back a little to look at the digital clock on the microwave and lets out a low whistle. “5:30 on the dot. There’s a cup of coffee for ya on the table over yonder. Just finished brewin’ the McCree special for ya, sweetpea.”

Sure enough, there sits the matte black mug, steaming in front of an open seat next to Torbjorn. Hanzo pads over to the table and takes the mug in hand. He takes a sip and it is still the best coffee Hanzo has ever had, even without the aftertaste of vomit lingering in his mouth. 

_ Guess that just means I’ll have to make you a cup of my finest every mornin’, then. _

Heat swells in the tips of his ears as he remembers the casual promise Jesse muttered yesterday. Surely the cowboy did not mean  _ every morning. _

Setting the mug back on the dining table, Hanzo moves to the fridge and opens the stainless steel door. He pulls out a small container, lighter than he anticipates--he’ll have to make more natto soon. He’s about to turn around to start preparing his own meal when a warm hand settles on the small of his back, sending a small jolt of electricity up his spine. 

“C’mon, doll, we’re makin’ plenty of food here. No need to make your own.” Jesse smiles down at him, eyes crinkling at the corners. “Unless you don’t like sausage?”

His brain is still sluggish--not from sleep, but from the feeling of Jesse being so close and so fucking  _ warm _ \--that he doesn’t think through what he says next. The words “I love sausage,” tumble from his lips, all Freudian fuck-up.

Next to Jesse at the stove, Brigitte chokes on her own spit and starts coughing violently, spatula falling from her hands to the stove top. Across the room, at the table, Reinhardt’s booming laugh rings out, the sound deafening in the confines of the kitchen. Beside him, Torbjorn lets out a strangled gagging sound, retching.

In front of Hanzo, sosoclose they’re practically breathing into each other’s space, Jesse’s cheeks take on an adorable shade of pink, visible even under his tanned skin. Jesse raises a hand to scratch at his cheek and stutters, “A-anyway, how do ya feel about hittin’ up the ol’ range after breakfast? I wanna see how well you claim to handle a gun.” Wink.

Torbjorn continues his fake retching and Brigitte mutters something under her breath in German, while Reinhardt lets out another boisterous bark of laughter. 

Hanzo really does not know what is happening, why the other agents are having a complete meltdown. He moves away from Jesse--albeit reluctantly--to reclaim his place at the dining table. He needs more coffee at this rate. Lifting the cup to his lips, he says into the rim, “Only if you use a bow, Jesse.”

With a chuckle, Jesse turns back to the pan on the stove and flips sausage patties. “Sounds like a date, sweetpea.”

This time, it is Hanzo who chokes.

* * *

The next two weeks pass in a whirlwind of one Jesse McCree.

Every morning, Hanzo wakes at 5:00 AM and steps into the kitchen at 5:30 sharp to find Jesse has a cup of his magic coffee ready for him. (On the third day, Hanzo asked him, “I had not seen you in the kitchen so early in my first week here. When do you normally awake?” and Jesse responded with, “Whenever I please. Lately, it pleases me to greet your grumpy face with a warm cuppa, doll.” Hanzo asked why and Jesse chuckled and placed a hand on Hanzo’s shoulder while handing him the second cup of the morning.)

Following breakfast with Jesse and assorted company, the two would have a shooting competition. Sometimes Hanzo borrows a pistol from the weapon stores, and sometimes Jesse pulls out his sniper rifle with a giant grin on his face. (On the twelfth day, Hanzo asks if he can shoot with Peacekeeper. “Why?” Jesse asked but handed over his most prized possession without hesitation. Hanzo responded, “You perform magic with his gun. I want to determine if it is the weapon or  _ you _ .” The previous day, Jesse had shown off Deadeye in a training sim and to say Hanzo was impressed was an understatement.)

Hanzo would prepare lunch for the two of them, usually a cold noodle dish or a simple stir fry. They would sit outside, even on the days the wind whipped around them, and eat in near silence. (On the seventh day, Jesse started spouting latin names for the different plants dotted throughout the courtyard. “How do you know these names?” Hanzo asked, lowering his chopsticks to the rim of his bowl. Jesse easily responded with a faraway look in his eye, “Ana loved flowers. She’s the one who started this garden. Now, that there is  _ Acacia dealbata _ …”)

After lunch meant training. Their team, Team 5, began to work more cohesively to the point that Winston would use them as models for new simulations he equipped Athena with. (On the eighth day, Hana whined to Winston about not being assigned on a mission in  _ so long. _ Winston sighed and said, “We are still a new organization, and an illegal one, at that. I’m trying to find missions that are relatively lowkey, and, uh, well, MEKA isn’t exactly lowkey…” Hana pouted through the rest of the training session. When Winston dismissed them, Hanzo watched as Jesse pulled Hana aside and began speaking to her in a low voice. Hanzo made out the phrases, “valuable,” “ain’t your fault,” and “you’re important to us.” The words seemed to calm Hana somewhat, as she uncrossed her arms and had a small smile on her face as she walked out of the arena. Jesse caught Hanzo’s eye and winked.)

Dinner is spent in the kitchen. Even when it is not official Team Dinner night, most agents share a meal together, laughing and sharing stories around the table, trading nibbles of whatever dish they made that night for a bite of another’s. Jesse always sits on Hanzo’s left side, and Mei to his right. Mei and Hanzo make small napkin origami and make jokes in Japanese (often at the other agents’ expense). Jesse’s elbow knocks into Hanzo’s bicep, but he doesn’t mind in the least after the fourth night. (On the fifth night Hanzo asks Jesse why he always sits on Hanzo’s left. “I’m mighty clumsy, as you know. My cold metal arm ain’t nearly as easily forgiven for bumpin’ you as my fleshy one,” Jesse said. Hanzo scoffed and knocked his metal foot playfully against Jesse’s bare ankle. “I have metal limbs I can fight back with, cowboy.”)

The rest of every evening is spent in the recreation room with Jesse and whomever else happens to be there. Jesse teaches Hanzo how to play no less than ten different card games, and Hanzo swears the cowboy cheats at every single once. Hanzo learns how to cheat at eight of them. When no one else is in the rec room, the two sit on the couch and watch movies--sometimes old Westerns, sometimes cheesy children’s animations. (On the thirteenth night, Jesse sits on the middle cushion of the couch, taking up the space that had previously separated them on these movie nights. Hanzo cannot recall what movie they watched, as all he could focus on was the warmth radiating from Jesse’s altogether too-close body. Hanzo didn’t say anything, and neither did Jesse.)

-

On the eve of his 24th night as an official Overwatch agent, Hanzo can’t sleep. This time, it isn’t a nightmare that wakes him. Rather, he has a dream so pleasant he’s shocked awake.

He can’t get the conjured image of the sweet first kiss shared at the end of their first date out of his head as he trudges to the kitchen. He’s sure he has a stupid smile on his face and his heart beats so wildly it threatens to leap out of his chest. He refuses to try to fall asleep immediately, wanting to relish in the feelings of joy and comfort he felt in dream-Jesse’s arms.

As we walks into the kitchen, he sees Mei sitting at the table, folding away. She doesn’t immediately look up or otherwise acknowledge Hanzo, just keeps creasing and creasing and creasing lazily. As Hanzo waits for his water to warm in his kettle, he watches as Mei distractedly folds sloppy snowflakes. Her normally perfectly symmetrical pieces are slightly crumpled and disproportionate.

They’ve shared tea and conversation over late night insomnia origami no less than 17 times and Hanzo cannot remember seeing Mei in such a state.

Quietly, he finishes preparing his tea and settles in the chair across from Mei. He gently asks, “Are you alright, Mei?”

Mei jerks her head up, eyes widened in surprise. “Oh, Hanzo,” she mutters and visibly relaxes. “I did not hear you enter.”

“I apologize for startling you.” Hanzo takes a sip of his tea and begins folding a horse. He thinks he is close to perfecting the most complicated version of it yet.

After a few moments of neither party saying anything, Mei asks almost hesitantly, “Have you thought about your soulmate, Hanzo?”

Hanzo has been appreciative that Mei has not brought up soulmates at all in his presence, but all good things must come to an end, he supposes. “It is quite frankly none of your business,” he snaps. He has not given any thought to soulmates in the last several days, in fact. It seems when Jesse is around all questions regarding soulmates from other agents cease. Luckily for Hanzo, the two have been near inseparable since their hangover egg journey, so he’s been able to escape this infuriating topic. Until now, it seems. He clears his throat, realizing he was rude to Mei, one of his  _ friends. _ “I apologize for snapping. It is… not something I wish to speak about.”

“I don’t mean to push, by why not?” Mei asks. Her eyes look into Hanzo’s, but they almost seem to be looking  _ through _ him. Something is bothering Mei. A soulmate something, obviously.

Hanzo sighs, knowing that once Mei is set on something she will not give up until she has found all the answers she desires. It makes her a great researcher, though in this moment Hanzo can’t help but to think it makes her a less-than-stellar friend. “I’m 38 years old. I have moved past the youthful fantasies of meeting them.”

“BUT WHAT IF YOU ALREADY HAVE?!” Mei blurts out, voice raising, eyes lighting up as if in excitement. 

Confused, Hanzo takes another sip of his tea, face remaining carefully neutral. “I suppose I will never know, then. No one mentioned when we met, and I am… here now. So the time has passed.”

“I mean,” Mei starts carefully, hands twisting on the tabletop, “would you want someone to tell you if you  _ had  _ met your soulmate?”

Hanzo’s first instinct is to say no immediately, but he finds himself pausing to think. Would he? Surely he doesn’t have one anymore--but if he did… He shakes his head at the thought. Of course not. He lost the chance and he must live with the consequences.

“I know I’d want someone to tell me,” Mei says, enthusiasm evident in her voice. “I can’t wait to meet them! I know they’re going to be wonderful. They’re my soulmate, so of course they will be! I don’t want to waste any time I could be spending with them as a soulmate.”

“I do not believe I have a soulmate any longer, Mei,” Hanzo says calmly. Mei opens her mouth to say something, but Hanzo wants to finish this quickly, so he raises a hand to silence her. He continues, “But if fate decided to be cruel and I still do have a soulmate, I would not like to know if I meet them. Nothing would come of our… potential relationship.”

Mei looks up at Hanzo, brows knit together. “Why not?”

“You have seen Genji, yes?”

“But fate already knows of your past deeds, Hanzo.” Mei smiles, a little sadly. “Besides, Genji forgives you. You are here, atoning for your past sins. It means you are a good man. Of course fate would reward you.”

Hanzo sighs again. “We will have to agree to disagree, Mei.”

“Okay, but even hypothetically, if you  _ did _ still have one, would you want to know?” Mei presses.

Hanzo’s thoughts circle back to Jesse. Jesse McCree, who has spent nearly every waking moment the last two weeks with Hanzo. Jesse, who casually brushes fingers and hands and knees with Hanzo and smiles so sweetly, whose eyes are so warm and kind and  _ gods _ Hanzo just wants that to continue. Jesse doesn’t think he has a soulmate, doesn’t have a string, and frankly Hanzo doesn’t care if he doesn’t have one, either, because he wants Jesse and Jesse is  _ enough. _ Hanzo has been  _ happy _ for once in his life and he must be selfish because he doesn’t want to let go of it.

“No, I wouldn’t want to know,” Hanzo says after a beat of silence.

“Oh, really?”

“No. I think I am happy with what I have now.”

Grinning, Mei asks, “With Jesse?”

_ Oh gods _ did he say all those things out loud? 

“You just spend so much time with him. I even saw you  _ smile _ at dinner the other day when he made a pun.” Mei’s grin is still glued to her chubby face as she speaks. “It is very obvious to me that you have feelings for Jesse.”

Hanzo’s hand clench around the mug in front of him. He looks down, heat stinging the tips of his ears and crawling up his neck. His voice comes out pitifully quiet, barely more than a breath, “Please do not tell anyone.” The last thing he needs is for Jesse to realize Hanzo fancies him--Hanzo does not want to lose their friendship over something that he should be able to keep underwraps. He will have to work harder to be less obvious. He must.

Mei’s grin melts into a soft smile. She reaches across the table and rests a warm hand atop Hanzo’s shaking wrist. “It’ll be our secret, okay?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> follow me on [twitter](https://twitter.com/OedipusOctopus) to listen to me yell about this fic and other WIPs i'll probably eventually post


	7. paper farms and fucking simulations

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> happy new year, y'all!!! 
> 
> I'm so so so sorry I missed the update last week, but I got crazy sick in the week following Christmas and everything I wrote was absolute garbage, so I took some time to make this chapter something I think is really great! It's probably my favorite chapter of the story so far, so I hope you enjoy <3 Thank you all for your lovely comments and all the kudos!! It means so much to me that y'all enjoy it enough to do all that!! <3

Just as Hanzo is taking a seat at the dining table the next morning, clutching his mug of “Jesse McCree Specialty” coffee in his too-cold fingers, Winston rushes through the kitchen threshold. 

“Ah, Hanzo, just the fellow I was looking for.” Winston ambles over to the table holding a tablet. He looks up over the frame of his glasses and takes notice of Jesse. “Oh, uh, Jesse. You’re, uh. Here. It’s early.”

Jesse tips his hat and chuckles. “New Overwatch, new McCree. At your service, sir.” He does a strange curtsey/bow that makes Hanzo struggle to hold in a laugh. 

Winston clears his throat. “Yes. Well. Uh, Hanzo, I need to speak with you,” the gorilla says, turning to face Hanzo fully. He glances over his shoulder at Jesse, who has turned his attention back to stirring whatever heavenly breakfast food he’s cooking. “Privately.”

Hanzo’s eyes narrow as he takes a sip of his coffee. “Your lab, perhaps?”

“Yes, that should work.” Winston half-heartedly spares Jesse a wave as he leads Hanzo out of the kitchen. “You aren’t in trouble, by the way.”

“I was not fearful of that,” Hanzo utters and wishes dearly that he’d taken his coffee with him.

“R-right. Of course not. Haha,” Winston awkwardly chuckles as he flicks on the lights in his lab. He motions for Hanzo to enter and follows behind the archer. “W-well, I do have… something unpleasant to talk to you about.”

Raising an eyebrow, Hanzo crosses his arms. “Oh?”

Winston moves to his desk and leans against it. “I try to keep soulmates together for missions.”

“Okay?” Hanzo drags out the ‘o’ sound, entirely unsure of where this conversation is going.

The gorilla sighs and hands Hanzo his tablet. Hanzo reads through the document pulled up on the screen. 

_Mission 23: Volskaya Industries - St. Petersburg, Russia_ _  
_ _Departure: September 19 0600_ _  
_ _Objective: [RESTRICTED]_

Hanzo lifts his eyes after scanning the first few lines. He says slowly, “You did mention sending a large team to Russia during our last meeting.”

“Y-yes, we have reason to believe there has been an uptick in omnic control technology manufacture. It could lead to the next Omnic Crisis,” Winston clarifies. “The… roster. Did you look?”

Shaking his head, Hanzo turns his attention back to the tablet.

 _Roster:_ _  
_ _Reinhardt_ _  
_ _Torbjorn_ _  
_ _Mercy_ _  
_ _Wrecking Ball_ _  
_ _Mei_ _  
_ _Bastion_ _  
_ _McCree_ _  
_ _Brigitte_ _  
_ _Winston_ _  
_ _Tracer_ _  
_ _Soldier: 76_

“This is quite a long list.” Hanzo is still not sure what Winston asked him here for, especially considering he emphasized their conversation be _private._

“W-well, yes. You see, I ran many simulations using all possible combinations of our current agents, and this is the composition that yielded the highest success rate, given our limited information regarding the situation on the ground.” The gorilla sighs again. “The mission will likely last a month at the least. Probably longer.”

Hanzo considers this list once more. The only agents not on the list are himself, Genji, Zenyatta, Satya, Lucio, Hana, and Fareeha. 

Fareeha.

Of course.

Winston is asking if Hanzo believes it is okay to separate Fareeha from her soulmate, Angela, for such a long time. It’s a little odd, but Winston has asked Hanzo for his opinion on strategy several times over the past few weeks, so he supposes it isn’t too suspicious. Yet, something nags at him from the back of his mind.

Ignoring the feeling, Hanzo carefully hands the tablet back to Winston. “I believe all current agents are mature enough to handle being away from their soulmate for a mission as dire as this.”

Letting out a relieved sigh, Winston takes the comm from Hanzo. He chuckles lightly. “That’s great to hear. I need everyone on this roster for the mission to be a success.”

Unsure of what to say, Hanzo nods. 

“Oh but of course those I am leaving behind are not… not valuable!” Winston says in a rush of nervous energy. “It’s, um, well, several of the other agents have experience with the last Omnic Crisis and, uh, I have run all the simulations--”

“I did not take offense to being left off this mission,” Hanzo says slowly, so as not to… frighten the gorilla further. It’s clear Winston is incapable of remaining calm in Hanzo’s presence.

“O-of course not! All agents are mature, like you said.” Winston coughs into his fist. “Um, anyway, I will, uh, call in these agents for a brief, then.”

Hanzo nods once more before turning away from the flustered scientist and leaves, heading back to the kitchen. 

-

Hanzo does not see Jesse again until 1:16 PM. After waiting for two hours in Range 2 for the cowboy to show his face after breakfast, Hanzo walked past Conference Room A, only to hear loud shouting in a conspicuous southern drawl, followed by various clamoring voices yelling in reply. He decided to spend this time reading instead of waiting for Jesse. When noon rolled around and Jesse did not show up to the kitchen either, Hanzo resigned himself to making soba for one and ate in this quarters, not wanting to sit where he and Jesse normally shared lunch without the other man’s presence. While eating alone, Hanzo makes the decision that he is _not_ upset that Jesse will be away on a mission for an entire month. 

Or longer.

It shouldn’t bother him, but even having to spend the morning without Jesse leaves Hanzo feeling… empty. 

Foolish.

Once he finishes his meager bowl of noodles, he continues reading the novel Mei let him borrow last week. It is during this reading time that a knock forces Hanzo from his concentration, glancing at his bedside clock to see red numbers glaring 1:16 PM. With a sigh, Hanzo opens the door and a large cowboy shoves his way inside without so much as a ‘howdy, partner.’ Instead, the man makes his way to the place Hanzo stashes his alcohol and roots around for a moment before pulling out Hanzo’s most expensive bottle of sake. He unscrews the cap, raises the glass bottle to his lips, and chugs at least half of the contents without taking a breath. 

Jesse sets the bottle down none so gently and wipes his mouth with the back of his right hand. He flops onto the small couch and takes another swig of sake while Hanzo stands near the door, eyebrows raised. “C’mere, darlin’.” He pats his prosthesis on the cushion beside him. 

Hanzo shakes his head admonishingly. “That is an expensive bottle, McCree.” Regardless, Hanzo finds himself stepping over to the couch, moving like a moth drawn to a flame. Mei’s words ring in his ears, _it is very obvious you have feelings for Jesse_ as he sits cross-legged on the cushion next to Jesse, close to the armrest so as to increase the distance between them. Whatever state their friendship is in right now shouldn’t be shifted mere hours before one of them is sent away for an entire month. All Hanzo has to do is keep his feelings reined in right now and then he will have a month to figure out how to deal with them.

“Now, I thought we were on a first-name basis, honey.” Jesse chuckles lightly and scoots closer to Hanzo, their knees now brushing. “Anyhow, I’ll reimburse you for however much this rice water is worth.”

“Nonsense,” Hanzo scoffs. “I was simply joking.”

“Right.” Taking another hearty gulp from the bottle, Jesse leans back and throws an arm across the back of the couch, so close to Hanzo’s head his ears perk up. “You remember Winston talkin’ ‘bout that long ass Russia mission? Ol’ boy stuck me on the roster.”

Hanzo tilts his head back, letting his undone hair blanket Jesse’s mechanical arm. The metal of the prosthetic is cool against his scalp. “Yes, Winston asked for my input regarding the mission roster this morning.”

Beside him, Jesse bristles. “‘Asked for your input?’ That mean you _volunteered_ me?”

“Of course not.” Hanzo’s eyes slip shut as he continues, “Winston ran simulations of the mission with all possible combinations of active agents. He showed me the list of agents that yielded the highest chance of success and asked if Fareeha and Angela could handle being apart--”

“He _what?_ ” Jesse interrupts.

Hanzo turns slightly to scowl at Jesse, but does not lift his head from the cowboy’s arm. “He asked for my opinion on the roster. I told him that if this team yields the most success, all agents are mature enough to understand.”

The cowboy is quiet for a moment, takes a few sips from the bottle. Eventually he says, “I don’t understand how the team doesn’t include you. I been to Volskaya an’ the whole damn place is catwalks. We’d be dumb as a box o’ rocks not to take our only sniper along.”

Hanzo half-heartedly shrugs and turns his attention back to the ceiling. He shifts his leg slightly so he can feel Jesse’s warm thigh beneath his knee. “Winston said he ran the simulations--”

“Fuck the simulations!” Jesse shouts and abruptly stands from the couch, glaring down at Hanzo, cheeks flushed, sakes still gripped tightly in his fleshy hand. “We been runnin’ team sims for weeks and then he splits us up? What’s the damn point then?”

“The teams are meant as semi-permanent assignments, not our _only_ assignments.” Hanzo sighs and leans forward so his elbows rest on his knees. “Regardless, it is only one mission that will last one month--”

“ _At least_ a month!” Jesse slams the bottle onto the coffee table and lifts his hands above his head. “A month or more without you.”

“I take no offense to being left off of this mission. I do not understand why _you_ are so upset, Jesse.”

Honey eyes stare down at Hanzo, searching Hanzo’s own for several beats of silence. Hanzo takes in Jesse’s face, cheeks and neck flushed, jaw clenched. He seems almost surprised, and then his eyes turn into a hard glare, his brow bunching in displeasure--anger. “Nah, I guess you’re right. I’ll take my leave, then. See ya ‘round, Hanzo.” Not waiting to hear Hanzo’s response, Jesse stomps out of Hanzo’s room and down the hall. 

Hanzo listens in stunned silence as he hears Jesse’s heavy footfalls travel no more than thirty paces, listens to the soft whooshing of Jesse’s door opening, closing. He doesn’t know what he said to make Jesse so upset, or why being away for so long would cause such a reaction. Surely Jesse has been on missions longer than a month, right? He was with Blackwatch for nigh a decade--so why?

Belatedly Hanzo realizes Jesse hadn’t used a pet name when he left.

* * *

Hanzo spends the rest of his day in his room, a small part of him hoping Jesse will come by and invite him for one last shootout before the mission tomorrow. He finishes not one but two novels, both borrowed from Mei. He cleans his bathroom and finally unpacks his duffel, hanging his sparse wardrobe in the closet. Around 5 PM, he debates walking to Jesse’s room to apologize, to ask Jesse to share dinner together, but quickly dismisses the idea. He’s not sure what to apologize for--he feels he didn’t do anything wrong, anyway. Hanzo cannot control Jesse’s emotions. They are both adults. If Jesse wishes to resolve whatever… argument they may have had, he knows where to find Hanzo.

Sometime after the sun has left the sky, Hanzo attempts to sleep. He knows it’s futile--the empty feeling from earlier in the day has returned, this time accompanied by a lurching stomach angry at him for skipping dinner. But the fool that he is, Hanzo tosses and turns in his bed, blanketed by his uneasy anxiety at how he and Jesse left things. 

Somehow the quiet hour of 3 AM sneaks up on Hanzo unlike any other. The dragons tingle and buzz, swirling just under his skin. It’s been nearly a month since he’s let them free. They constantly call for him, for Genji, to be let out. He knows he can ignore them only for so long, but even Overwatch does not have adequate facilities to let them do as they please, if only for a moment.

With a deep sigh--what has to be his ten thousandth of the day--Hanzo flings the thin sheet from his body and sits up, attaching his prosthetics at the knee joint. He stands and runs a hand through his hair, wincing at the slippery feel at the roots. He trudges to the kitchen, his place of solace, horror, comfort in the Watchpoint. Some part of him deflates when he crosses the threshold and sees not another soul sitting at the dining table or fixing coffee at the counter.

The other part of him is thankful no one will witness his sorry state.

After he sets the kettle on, he pulls open a drawer next to the ‘junk drawer’ and pulls out a few sheets of origami paper. Mei insisted they have a shared drawer here and adamantly defended their commandeering of an entire kitchen drawer for paper to Winston when he asked why there was enough sheets to paper mache the entire base taking up space in the communal kitchen. 

He pulls out a light pink, a few shades of brown, white, a pastel yellow with white flora. He sits at the table, takes a sip of tea, and begins absently folding. He’s not watching what he’s doing, letting the familiar actions of creasing and retouching with his thumbnail overtake him as he stares into the abyss of his tea cup as steam curls around the rim. Only when he’s finished this piece does he realize he’s made a [pig](https://images.app.goo.gl/eLWjHsgu6FJEBECb8), something Mei showed him how to do last week. It looks much better than his first try, at least. 

Furrowing his brow, Hanzo takes the white sheet and begins folding once again, hoping the motions will tamper the voice in the back of his head repeatedly chanting _When will Jesse show?_

Somehow this paper creature turns into a [cow](https://images.app.goo.gl/BSGShR2c5HMt1rgC8), though it merely looks like a fat horse without the spots. He rifles through the aforementioned junk drawer and emerges victorious after a few moments, fat black permanent marker gripped in his hand. He returns to the table and begins decorating the small paper sculpture with carefully placed splotches of black, silently praying that the ink does not bleed and ruin the whole thing. 

On his second cup of tea, Hanzo makes a [chicken](https://images.app.goo.gl/Qnc2FbVSvcVWTPar7) from the yellow paper and a shoddy [goat](https://images.app.goo.gl/DfY4nv3Hody9qZPw9) from a dark brown. On his third cup, he stares down at his completed horse, the one Jesse had called _cute._

In his sleep-deprived state, sitting at the kitchen table alone at 4:05 AM, Hanzo stares down in horror at the tiny paper farm he has made. 

Paper farm. 

He made a paper farm for his cowboy--

Not _his_ cowboy, of course, but for Jesse. _A_ cowboy. Of whom Hanzo enjoys his company. 

Heat creeps up the back of Hanzo’s neck, spurring him into action and _god damn it_ why did his brain have to come up with the phrase _spurring._

He rushes to rinse out his tea cup, placing it in the drying rack before he collects his paper animals in a small cardboard box he finds in the back corner of the pantry, heat stinging his cheeks the entire time. If he is hasty in his cleanup, it’s resolutely not because he’d be utterly (god damn it, another farm animal pun?) embarrassed if someone were to walk in on Hanzo folding an entire _farm_ of animals, but because he suddenly feels very tired and wants to sleep. 

Sometimes he can lie to himself. 

On his way to his quarters, Hanzo slows in front of Jesse’s door, chin level with the plaque reading _Agent McCree_ . Somewhere along the line of their friendship--the hairs on the back of Hanzo’s neck stand on end as he thinks the word--Hanzo stopped thinking of Jesse as McCree, so much so he nearly reels as he reads _McCree_ on his door. _McCree_ was the mysterious yet charming American fool who defended him from the other agents’ exclusion of Hanzo, the one who laughed when Hanzo would ask a question, the one who never pushed Hanzo out of his comfort zone but instead eased him into life at Overwatch. 

_Jesse_ is the one who meets Hanzo for breakfast, lunch, and dinner, and all the times in between, the absolute fool who knows enough about botany to write a book but can’t remember to keep his beard trimmed, the _friend_ who somehow always knows what to say and when to shut his too-loud mouth and give Hanzo silence to think.

Hanzo comes back to himself, standing there like an idiot in the hallway, and sees that during his inane thoughts he has turned over the lid of the box and placed it on the floor in front of Jesse’s door, the origami animals standing in a small collection inside its confines. 

He thinks about scooping up the box lid and returning it to his room, but he hears the _click_ of a lock unlatching from down the hall and scurries into his own room three doors down before someone catches him being absolutely ridiculous, standing in front of Jesse’s quarters like a fool. 

* * *

Hanzo wakes when the sunlight filtering through his cracked blinds bleeds through his eyelids. Blearily he opens his eyes and sits up, feeling a throb where his prosthetics meet his thighs. He digs the heel of his palm into his eye sockets and yawns. Glancing at his bedside clock, he sees that it is 8:27 AM, and startles. 

He hasn’t slept this late since he was a boy, before his misguided youth morphed into premature adulthood. 

He swings his legs over the edge of his bed and blanches. 

He left a small _farm_ of _origami animals_ in front of Jesse’s door last night. 

He hopes Jesse doesn’t say anything about it--better, that he wouldn’t know it was Hanzo who left him the weirdest gift to exist. (But Jesse is smart, smarter than his _carefree southern cowboy_ act lets on, and Hanzo knows Jesse will know.)

With a groan, Hanzo stands, ignoring the sharp pain shooting up his legs. _It was a peace offering to settle the argument,_ Hanzo justifies in his head as he changes into a simple t-shirt and jeans, getting ready for the day. 

As he is about to leave his room, unshowered and distinctly more tense than normal, he sees a small white piece of paper sticking out between the door and doorframe. Curious, he pulls open the door and catches the envelope as it falls from where it was shoved into the small crack. Hanzo lifts the flap and pulls out a navy blue piece of paper, folded and smooshed flat. He begins pulling at the edges slightly, opening it up to reveal a dagon.

Well, he thinks it’s a dragon, anyway. There are a few creases where there shouldn’t be, a small rip near the snout, and one distinct greasy fingerprint over the left wing. It looks a little bit like a crane, but a little more. 

Hanzo lifts the flap of the envelope again and finds a hot pink post it note, Jesse’s neat handwriting scrawled in black ink. 

_Sorry for being an ass last night._ _  
_ _-J_ _  
_ _P.S. you were right, this paper folding thing is harder than it looks._ _  
_ ~~_Please teach me, senpai <3 _~~

Hanzo can just barely make out through the rough scratch what the last line says and chuckles to himself. He moves back into his room and places the little dragon on his dresser, his only decoration in his bare room, and grabs his comm before making his way into the kitchen for a late breakfast. On route, Hanzo types out a quick message to Jesse, a small squeeze in his chest as he belatedly realizes he missed the team’s take off this morning. 

_08:37_ _  
_ _[Sent]: You did well, kouhai._

“Zen, do you see what I see?” Genji’s synthetic voice breaks Hanzo away from his staring down at his comm as he steps into the kitchen proper. 

Hanzo bristles slightly as he sees Zenyatta and Genji sitting at the table as Genji picks at a plate of eggs and toast, Zenyatta’s metal hand resting on the cyborg’s knee. The two are staring up at Hanzo. “What? Do I have something on my face?”

With Genji’s faceplates removed, Hanzo can see as his grin turns into a wicked smirk. “Zen, is Hanzo _smiling?_ Before he even has his coffee?”

Zenyatta’s internal fans whir loudly and Hanzo thinks it’s supposed to be a robotic imitation of laughter. “I believe so.”

“Did Jesse skip out on the mission? Are you harboring a fugitive, anija?” Genji leans forward, head in his hands as he speaks conspiratorially. 

Hanzo scoffs, brows furrowing into a deep scowl. “Of course not. Why would you ask something so ridiculous?”

“Jesse is the only thing that makes you smile these days,” Genji says so casually as he turns back to his food, picking up his toast to take a bite.

Moving to grab the kettle from a cupboard, Hanzo frowns. “That is not true.”

“Sure, anija. Whatever you say.”

-

Hanzo is not sure what to do with himself by 11:45 AM. He contemplates the merits of going through training simulations with Athena, but quickly dismisses the idea when he remembers the time he and Jesse tried to bend the will of the AI to make the moving targets more difficult, only to result in two frustrated marksmen ready to smash the physical core of Athena to bits. 

The shooting range is empty when Hanzo walks in, and an unsettling cold feeling washes over him, so he leaves.

Jesse once told him about a small nature sanctuary that has fallen into ownership unknown since the fall of Overwatch, off the northwest corner of the Watchpoint on a cliff. 

_"Genji used to go up there and smash palm fruit when he got too angry, sometimes," Jesse said absently as he plucked pomegranate seeds from the half sphere sitting between them on the roof. "I ain't been up there since the Recall, but Angela told me monkeys live there still."_

Hanzo remembers his father sending him to nearby forests to shoot at small rats and other forest creatures as punishment during his teenage years-- _“the smaller targets move quickly, presenting more challenge than your laziness here allows”--_ and decides to take up shooting whatever scampers along the sanctuary floor to pass the time. 

-

Hanzo runs into Genji and Zenyatta in the kitchen once more, this time as he goes to prepare himself a late lunch. The couple sits at the table in the exact same position as this morning, Zenyatta with a hand resting on Genji’s lower thigh as Genji prods some sort of noodle dish on a plate. 

As Hanzo places a pot on the stove, yelling filters through the doorway followed by a loud crashing noise from the distance, in the direction of the dormitories. The sound causes Hanzo’s grip on the pot to faulter momentarily, his blessed reflexes keeping him from spilling water over the floor and counter.

“Ah, those two are at it again.” Zenyatta’s synthetic cantor is just this side of grating on Hanzo’s eardrums. 

“Who is at it?” Hanzo asks as he adjusts the stovetop temperature. 

Genji sighs heavily and drops his fork noisily against his plate. “Lucio and Hana. They’ve been doing lots of streams together lately and I think the constant proximity is grating on them.”

Hanzo hums noncommittally, moving to start the kettle for afternoon tea. 

“So,” Genji starts, stretching out the ‘o’ like an annoying brat, “what are your plans for the rest of the day, anija?”

“I suppose I have fallen behind on my training regimine. I shall rectify that.” Hanzo grabs his tea mug from the cupboard, having to stand on his toes to reach far enough. 

“Bo-ring!” Genji stands from his spot at the table, walking to the sink with his half-empty plate in hand. “Now is the time to let loose since no one is in charge!”

Hanzo gives Genji a very older-brother-look over his shoulder, admonishment but no disappointment. “Just because Winston is gone does not mean no one is in charge, Genji.”

Genji unceremoniously drops his plate into the sink. He turns to face Hanzo and snaps his fingers, as if realizing something. “You’re right! The one with most seniority is in charge when Winston leaves, and that happens to be--golly, who could that be, Zen?”

Zenyatta does that internal fan whir and leans forward to rest his chin in his hand from his seat at the table. “That would be you, Genji.”

“So it is!” Genji steps over to Hanzo and rests a hand on his older brother’s shoulder, face settling into the crook where Hanzo’s neck meets shoulder. “And my first command as, well, _commander_ , is for you to stop moping that Jesse’s gone and do something fun.”

“I cannot be moping if Jesse left this morning.”

Genji exaggerates a sigh, breath hot and loud against Hanzo’s ear. Hanzo pinches his nose to get him to move. “But you miss him already, right?”

Hanzo matches Genji’s sigh as he adds noodles to the now boiling water on the stovetop. “It would be ridiculous to miss someone I saw _yesterday._ ”

“That’s not a no.” Though Hanzo is facing away from his younger brother, he can feel Genji’s wicked smirk mocking him. “Anyway, Zen and I are going on a _date.”_

Thoroughly uninterested in the goings-on of his younger brother’s love life, Hanzo ignores the comment in lieu of chopping some vegetables to add to his lunch. 

A teasing undertone, pinched with the humor of someone who knows something they shouldn’t, slips out of Genji’s mouth as he says, “We’re going to Mama Maya’s. It’s, like, the de facto date spot in Gibraltar.”

Hanzo chokes on air.

* * *

Hanzo spends his days doing things--mostly training, both by shooting field mice in the nature sanctuary and running painfully easy simulations with Athena, sometimes reading novels left by Mei before she left for Russia, occasionally meditating. 

He consistently runs into Genji and Zenyatta all over the Watchpoint, and almost always feels like he’s intruding. It’s not unusual to see an omnic’s hand resting on a cheek or a knee, but when Hanzo walks into the rec room in the evening to find Genji without faceplates, metal fingertips stroking Zenyatta’s own faceplate, Hanzo immediately turns and heads back to his room. His brother has never been soft, sentimental, always rash and brute physicality--Hanzo’s stomach turns unpleasantly at the thought of Genji changing so drastically upon meeting his soulmate, even as Hanzo remains in the same state of emptiness.

Hanzo does not see Lucio or Hana, but hears them in screaming matches at 2:45 AM some nights, winces when the sounds of crashing and banging inevitably reverberates through the whole dormitory building in the afternoons, wonders if perhaps the two should take a small break when Hana slams Lucio’s door so hard the locking mechanism breaks and Athena throws the entire base into lockdown because she feared it was the result of an attack.

Occasionally Satya appears in the kitchen or the rec room, but upon seeing others in her presence typically tilts her nose up in disgust and walks back to her quarters. 

Hanzo does not see Fareeha except in the gym and training rooms, the woman always soaked in sweat. As he enters the gym on a Wednesday afternoon, wrapping athletic tape around his knuckles, he thinks he sees tears mix with the droplets of sweat streaking down her cheeks, but he says nothing when she mutters a soft _hello_ to him as he passes her from her place in front of the heaviest punching bag in the gym.

* * *

Thirteen days after the Russia team has left, Hanzo’s comm buzzes obnoxiously against the wood of his nightstand, repeatedly as he prepares for bed. He glances at the time, _11:49 PM_ and sighs. Surely Genji would not bother him this late, especially when the damned cyborg is only a few paces from Hanzo--

 _Incoming Video Call:_ _  
_ _Agent McCree_

Hanzo’s heart skips a beat and blood rushes through his ears. For once he wishes it was simply anticipation at hearing Jesse-- _seeing_ Jesse for the first time in two weeks, but it’s in fear. 

Logically, he knows that Winston has been calling Genji daily with updates--that Genji is technically in charge turned out to be accurate, much to Hanzo’s chagrin--so if something were wrong, they would have heard about it already, and certainly Hanzo would not be the first to hear about any bad news. Regardless, a small shock of panic rips up Hanzo’s spine as he swipes the ‘accept’ button. 

Before the call can completely resolve and the screen is overtaken by black, save for the small rectangular window in the top left corner displaying Hanzo’s own face, he speaks with a voice superficially even. “Is everything alright?”

Jesse’s face fills the screen, his bright smile and messy hair replacing the cold blackness from before and Hanzo has to remember his decades of rigorous training to prevent his breath being knocked from his very lungs. “No, everythin’ is not alright.”

 _Then why are you smiling, fool?_ Hanzo is already moving toward his pack, filled to the zipper with a spare change of clothes, his quiver of arrows, sitting right next to Storm Bow, unsure of what to say and _of course_ Winston should have put him on the mission--

“It’s so damn _boring_.” Jesse’s smooth southern drawl, all sweet tea and worn canvas of well-loved cowboy hats, washes over Hanzo like a bucket of ice water poured over his head.

“What?” Hanzo grits out, stilling his motions. 

“It’s so fuckin’ _borin’_ Hanzo, I don’t know what to do with myself!”

Hanzo sighs and takes a seat on his bed, cradling the comm with his right hand. “Isn’t this mission of dire importance?”

“Yeah, but right now we’re waitin’ on lotsa people to make some decisions about our game plan.” Hanzo watches, rapt, as Jesse moves the comm away from his face slightly so that more of the cowboy’s torso comes into view. Worn red plaid stretches over Jesse’s broad shoulders, an extra button undone so dark, coarse chest hair just begins to peak out between the fabric and Hanzo feels his mouth dry unpleasantly. “It’s all listenin’ to Winston and Jack and a buncha Russion bigwigs all yellin’ at each other about strategy, blah blah blah.”

Hanzo takes a sip of his evening tea with his free hand. “Weren’t you a strike captain in Blackwatch? You should be used to strategy meetings.”

“Now, where did you hear about that?” The slight pink tinge spreading across Jesse’s tanned cheeks catches Hanzo’s attention. 

He never imagined Jesse would be _embarrassed_ about his high rank in Blackwatch. Of course Hanzo knew Jesse had to have been relatively highly ranked--Winston had told Hanzo the ranking order in the current Overwatch, and Jesse was third, just after Winston and Jack. Jesse hadn’t mentioned it to him, and Hanzo now knows why. “Genji informed me you were second in command. Quote, ‘Reyes’s right hand man,’ I believe he said.”

Jesse lifts a hand to his cheek and scratches at the reddened skin just above the ragged edge of his beard, an obvious tell Hanzo never fails to catch. “I guess I was. Anyway, Reyes never let me do much talkin’. He did all the plannin’ and I led the troops wherever he told us to go.” When Hanzo does not give more response than a quiet hum, Jesse continues, “Regardless, I’ve been so fuckin’ bored here. But hey! Check this out, doll.” 

The comm shuffles around, Jesse disappearing from view of the camera. After a few moments of wobbly camera work that makes Hanzo grateful he was never one for motion sickness, he’s not sure what he’s looking at, but it appears to be some sort of small folding table with small blotches of color spread across it. 

“Mei let me use some of her origami paper and she’s been teachin’ me how to make all kindsa things. Maybe now I can finally join y’all’s little secret paper society. I’ll spice if right up with my southern charm, darlin’.” Jesse moves into frame momentarily, leaning down so his face is visible next to the table, and then he moves away again. 

Hanzo tries his hardest to make out what the little splotches of color are, but from this angle and distance he can’t. When he tells Jesse as much, there’s a faux-offended scoff and more camera shuffling. 

“Now, I’ll try not to be too offended by that. Hang on a tic, lemme just--” After a few moments of the camera spinning circles, a muffled ‘aha!’ rings out as Jesse must have found something to lean his comm against. All the little blotches are in focus now, small paper creatures in various shades of pinks and reds and blues, much closer to the camera this time. Again, Jesse leans his face down from his seat at the table so Hanzo can see his whiskey coloured eyes, crinkled in joy, and the angle is terrible but Hanzo’s breath stutters in his mouth when he realizes that he’s _seeing Jesse_ for the first time in two weeks.

Hanzo has done an excellent job in the last week to stop his, quote, ‘moping’ about missing Jesse, according to Genji. He’s returned to his regular training routine, his normal sleep schedule (only interrupted by occasional nightmares, of course), and he thought he would be able to handle Jesse’s return without feeling like a schoolboy with his first crush. But as he watches Jesse’s smile grow wide from the terribly unflattering angle through a lense too small to capture all of Jesse’s being, Hanzo barely resists the urge to clamp his free hand over his chest, urging his heart to cease its incessant hammering against his ribcage. 

“Hopefully this’ll be better. So, this here,” Jesse says, grin evident in his voice as he points to the first origami sculpture in frame, a small white thing with blotches of bleeding ink speckled over it, “is Bessie. See, that cow you made me was so darn cute I couldn’t resist makin’ a hundred of ‘em…”

Hanzo listens as Jesse prattles on, pointing with a disembodied finger to the many paper creatures littered across the table top, listing names and what they’re supposed to be and how hard that particular pattern was to execute. Jesse is still hunched over ridiculously, his back curved and his face barely visible in frame as the camera strains to focus on everything at once. Hanzo doesn’t interrupt as Jesse explains each of his ‘babies,’ except every so often to ask how Jesse came up with a name--Nugget for a chicken seemed simply too macabre to Hanzo, but Jesse thought it _hilarious_. 

Hanzo makes an offhand comment around the hour of 12:15 that he can see improvement in the more recent pieces, and the glowing smile Jesse bares in response, out of focus and blurry in the background, makes Hanzo’s heart stop.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> find me on [twitter](https://twitter.com/OedipusOctopus)


	8. tea

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ahhhhhhh it has been so incredibly hard to write the closer i get to the end of this fic!! i don't anticipate the next chapter being up for another two weeks, at the pace i've been going. 
> 
> I do want to thank every person who has stuck around!!! I've received so much overwhelming support for this fic and it has definitely fueled me to keep pushing through my writer's block!!! thank you so so so much for all the love <3

The nightly video calls with Jesse become something of a norm, though there is a 4 day stint wherein Hanzo doesn't hear from the other man. He approaches Genji during breakfast (Genji's later breakfast, of course--the younger Shimada has never been one to wake early) and asks what the most recent update with Winston entailed. 

"Oh, I'm surprised Jesse didn't mention it to you on your not-secret unsanctioned late night phone calls," Genji says casually around a piece of too-burnt toast. 

Hanzo scoffs and moves to prepare tea. "I was unaware phone calls with away agents are against protocol." 

Genji chuckles in response, setting down his food. "Nah, it's not  _ not  _ allowed, it's just weird. Even Fareeha hasn't been talking to Angela. Anyway, the team is finally making their move, so they'll probably be busy for a few more days."

"Since it is so unusual, I shall cease our communication while he's away." Hanzo hopes the bitterness he feels doesn't seep into his voice. 

"That's not--" Genji starts, then sighs, interrupting himself. "Anija… You made me promise all those years ago to not tell you if I witnessed your meeting your soulmate. Do you still wish that? For future reference, of course." He adds the last sentence in a rush, an afterthought. 

Hanzo  _ burns _ . Heat flares in his belly, his chest constricts, and he struggles to keep his voice carefully even as he responds, "I do not have a soulmate anymore, Genji." 

Genji bites back quickly, "I can see your thread, brother." 

"Why would you tell me that?" Hanzo hears his own voice ring in his ears, loud and rough with anger at his foolish, meddling younger brother. How  _ dare _ he?

Genji pushes away the plate in front of him, half finished piece of toast forgotten until now. He remains seated, his voice calm and just synthetic enough to grate on Hanzo's nerves. "I want you to be happy, anija. You deserve that."

“I cannot unknow that someone is tethered to me,  _ kin slayer,  _ for the rest of my life." 

"Anija…" Genji stands from the table and moves to where Hanzo stands at the sink, white-knuckle gripping the countertop. "Please do not tell me you think you do not deserve a soulmate? Do you honestly believe you lost your thread back then?"

"I did." Hanzo ducks away from Genji's hand reaching out for his shoulder in what is probably meant to be physical reassurance. "Even if I hadn't, at least I was blissfully unaware that I am still tethered to someone who is better off without me."

“Brother, no--”

“Would finding my soulmate make you happy?” Hanzo interrupts Genji this time, fingers still gripping the countertop. 

Genji at least has the decency to look somewhat perplexed. “What?”

“If I found my soulmate,” Hanzo says slowly, clearly, “and should they want me even past the fratricide, would that make you happy?”

“It doesn’t matter if it would make  _ me  _ happy--”

“It does!” The relative emptiness of the base is something Hanzo can be grateful for, in this moment, because his voice has risen to levels higher than he’s used in years, but he can’t stop. “Do you not understand that I am here, living my life for  _ you _ ?!”

For once, Genji is silent. Speechless. 

Hanzo knows surely Zenyatta is lurking around--the two are never far apart from each other--so it does not matter if they are speaking in Japanese or English or maybe both, but suddenly he is aware that there  _ are _ other members on base. He makes sure his words continue in their mother tongue, just in case. “I could have ended myself long ago. However, I stayed alive because I knew it was what you would want.”

Still Genji does not speak, does not move a muscle--organic or otherwise. His lips are pressed into a thin line, eyes distant though trained in Hanzo’s general direction.

“My life is yours, Genji, do you not understand?” 

Four beats pass, seven, ten, and then Hanzo watches as Genji’s mouth finally begins to move, shaping words that seem to crawl into Hanzo’s ears like leeches. “I understand but I do not agree. Your life is yours, Hanzo. It always has been and always will be.”

Hanzo removes his hands from the counter, standing tall with his shoulders pushed back as he stares down at his younger brother’s feet. “I am indebted to you--”

“No you’re not!” This time, it is Genji whose voice raises. “I do not care about your stupid pride and I do not want your  _ pity _ . I am beyond this, brother. I am different now, but I believe fate intended for this to have happened to me. You were under orders from the clan--”

“I should not have listened to them--”

“Stop!” Genji raises his hands above his head in exasperation, voice a full yell. “You can’t seriously live the rest of your life thinking I have some sort of ownership over you because of what happened a decade ago! Stop it! I do not want your life. I want you to be happy and I really,  _ really  _ think your soulmate can do that for you!”

Hanzo breathes deeply for a moment, considering his next words. “I do not care for my soulmate, Genji.”

“But you already do!” Horror crosses Genji’s face and he lifts his hands to cover his mouth, eyes wide. It reminds Hanzo of a younger version of Genji, unable to control his knee-jerk cheeky responses to clan elders.

Hanzo narrows his eyes, taking a step closer to Genji so that their toes are practically touching. He speaks lowly, dangerously, “What does that mean?”

“I… misspoke,” Genji stutters out, taking a tentative step away from his very threatening older brother. 

“You do not misspeak. You speak out of turn, but you do not  _ misspeak.” _

“Maybe I do now!”

Silence blankets the two, still standing facing each other, neither moving away. 

Eventually, Hanzo sighs and moves to pour hot water from the electric kettle whirring away on the counter. “I still do not with to know, should I meet them. I would hope whomever is around them would not tell them, either. For their sake.”

Genji bows his head slightly and mutters, “As you wish, anija.”

* * *

Forty seven days after their departure, the Russia team returns to Watchpoint: Gibraltar. Genji, the absolute menace, does not inform Hanzo. And Hanzo, having kept his quiet promise to Genji to cease communication with Jesse while the team is away, has heard from nobody that the team is returning. 

Instead, he finds out when one cowboy appears in the threshold of Hanzo’s door, hat gripped in a clenched hand resting over his heart. Worry wrinkles in between Jesse’s brows even as a smile tugs at the corners of his mouth. “Heya, doll. Been a hot minute.”

Hanzo’s heart does a little tumble in his ribcage. “Jesse?”  _ How eloquent. _

The small smile on Jesse’s face spreads into a full-blown grin and Hanzo feels an overwhelming urge to close the space between them. “At your service.” Jesse places his hat back on his head and tips the brim teasingly. 

“I was unaware of the team’s return.” The words coming through Hanzo’s mouth barely register in his brain. Sometime after day thirty five since The Departure, Hanzo assumed it would be at least another month before The Return. Gods above know Hanzo wouldn’t ask Genji--Hanzo hadn’t needed to be reminded of his supposed  _ pining _ simply for asking a question. 

Jesse, not pixelated in a video call but in the flesh, laughs heartily and leans against the doorframe, bringing his face less than eight inches away from Hanzo’s. “If  _ someone _ hadn’t stopped answerin’ my calls, he woulda known.” With a wink, Jesse grabs a cigarillo from his pocket and places it between his lips, rolling it between his teeth. “If I were a lesser man I’d take offense, darlin’.”

“I apologize. It came to my attention that communication between agents away on missions is… unusual.” Hanzo moves away from the doorframe and motions Jesse to enter his room. 

The cowboy shakes his head and takes a step back into the hallway. “I ain’t been one to be a usual agent. Anyhow, I gotta wash up, but what say you we meet in the courtyard in an hour? Word on the street is you ain’t left this base in a few weeks.” Without waiting for a reply, Jesse winks once more and saunters off toward his room, and Hanzo can’t help but let his gaze fall below the man’s belt. 

If Jesse over exaggerates the sway of his hips, well, Hanzo isn’t going to call him out. 

-

Hanzo spends approximately twenty five of the next sixty minutes preening in the mirror, worrying over each and every flyaway that refuses to be held back by his most intricate ribbon--eventually he settles on leaving his hair down. It’s the middle of winter, anyway, he reasons, so it’ll keep him warm. It has nothing to do with the fact that Jesse always finds an excuse to brush his bangs out of his face, or tuck a stray hair behind his ear, when Hanzo wears his hair down.

With a last glance in the mirror, Hanzo leaves his quarters and heads to the courtyard. As he passes through the kitchen, he sees a few agents gathered around the table, drinking various warm drinks from mugs and laughing jovially. Even Jack doesn’t look as constipated as normal--the mission must have gone well for spirits to be this high. 

“Ah, Hanzo!” Winston’s voice calls out just as Hanzo thinks he is close enough to the door to sneak by without being stopped. 

Hanzo turns on his heel and nods at Winston. “Winston. It is good to see the mission went well.”

“Yes, well.” Winston clears his throat and averts his eyes for a moment. “Are you and McCree…?” he trails off and several other heads turn toward Hanzo. 

Hanzo raises an eyebrow in question. 

“Well, are you two…” Winston coughs into his fist, eyes pleading Hanzo to catch on to what he’s trying to say, but Hanzo is entirely lost. “You know. Are things between you… okay?”

Hanzo scans the room, letting his gaze catch all who  _ dare _ to look at him in this moment. Eventually his hardened stare lands back on Winston. “I do not believe that it is your business, unless mine or Jesse’s performances have been compromised. Is that the case?”

“W-well, no--”

“Then I bid you all a good afternoon. Excuse me,” Hanzo says with an air of finality that fills him with a sense of power he hasn’t felt in many years. He steps through the door leading into the courtyard, thankful no one calls after him for what is no doubt a sign of subordinance--he did refuse to answer his commander over something that had a simple answer, frankly. But he is tired of other agents putting themselves in the middle of whatever this  _ thing _ with Jesse is. He wishes their time apart was enough for Hanzo to parse through his feelings, but instead it left him with a hollow ache in his chest and a brain muddled by ridiculous fancies he’s too old to handle.

A low whistle drags Hanzo from his thoughts. A few paces away, at their usual table, sits Jesse, worn blue flannel hugging his forearms, stupid hat tipped far back enough Hanzo has clear view of his face. His beard has been recently trimmed, though Hanzo isn’t sure any amount of grooming is enough to completely tame the man’s facial hair. “Somethin’ sure pissed you right off, huh?”

“It is nothing.” Hanzo moves to the bench, but does not sit. “You mentioned leaving the base today?”

From his seat, Jesse beams up at him. “Figured we’d hit up Mama Maya’s. I missed them eggs somethin’ fierce.” He stands and pulls a cigarillo from his pocket, lighting it up and taking a slow pull as he meanders around the picnic bench. “I say we see where the wind takes us after that, darlin’.”

_ Mama Maya’s is, like, the de facto date spot in Gibraltar. _

Nevermind that he and Jesse had visited Mama Maya’s multiple times before the Russia mission--coupled with Genji probably having only said that because he  _ knows _ he and Jesse regularly eat there and the cyborg is an instigator--Hanzo can’t help but let Genji’s words ring in the back of his mind as he and Jesse make their way into town side by side.

No less than three times between the base and the diner does Jesse’s left hand brush Hanzo’s right wrist.

The dragons buzz beneath his skin,  _ Jesse here Jesse safe Jesse now, _ and it takes every ounce of willpower Hanzo has to keep them still.

“Y’alright, doll? Y’seem a bit distracted,” Jesse drawls as he holds open the door to the diner and motions with one arm,  _ after you. _

Hanzo suppresses a shiver as Jesse rests a hand on the small of his back, leading the pair to their usual booth in the corner. He’s acting strangely, he knows, but only because the urge to kiss Jesse has overwhelmed his right sense since the man showed up at his door. “I am simply… cold,” he supplies lamely.

“Uh huh,” Jesse grunts, raising an eyebrow in obvious skepticism. He takes a seat across from Hanzo and plucks a jelly packet from the small bowl in the centre of the table. “Well, think a little jelly football will warm ya up? I have a title to reclaim.”

Smirking, Hanzo pushes aside the salt and pepper shakers to make more room for their game. “You may try, cowman.”

They only get in two shots each before their regular waitress,  _ Luciana,  _ appears with two mugs of coffee in hand. She smiles brightly down at Jesse and says something in Spanish with a teasing lilt to her voice. As she sets down their coffee--vanilla flavoured, of course--Jesse responds in the language Hanzo still does not understand, and winks at Hanzo over the rim of a mug held to his lips. Whatever he says makes Luciana cover her mouth with a hand and giggle lightly, and Jesse grins up at her in turn. 

The whole exchange threatens to dampen Hanzo’s uplifted mood at finally having Jesse back, a heavy pit already forming in his stomach. He pushes the negativity aside, if only for now--he’s missed having Jesse around and he’s not going to waste an opportunity on entirely misplaced jealousy or whatever ugly emotion this might be. It’s not as if Hanzo has claim on Jesse, anyway. They’re just friends, catching up after being apart for so long. 

_ Friends. _

“Hanzo?” Jesse’s smooth-as-honey voice brings Hanzo back to the present. Luciana has left, and Jesse has his forefinger and thumb held together, back hunched, ready to take his next shot. Worry drenches his features. “Y’sure you’re doin’ okay? You’re real out of sorts today.”

Lifting his own chipped diner mug, Hanzo says, “I apologize. I am perhaps a little distracted.”

Jesse leans back, relaxing his hands. “What’s on your mind, darlin’?”

_ I missed this. I missed you. I haven’t fully processed that you have returned. I want to kiss you. Is this a date?  _ But Hanzo doesn’t say any of those things. Instead, he takes a slow sip of coffee, taking in Jesse in front of him--scraggly beard, hair longer than the last time Hanzo saw him, same old faded and stretched flannel, ridiculous Stetson atop his head. “I was not expecting my day to go like this,” he says after a moment too long of staring at his compatriot.

If Jesse thinks it strange Hanzo has been looking at him for at least two entire minutes in silence, his facial features do not portray such. “Well, darlin’, the day has just started.” He winks, tucking into his own coffee with a mischievous smirk dancing on his lips. 

-

Bellies full and one Jesse McCree crestfallen at yet another loss of jelly football, the two walk beside each other through the streets of Gibraltar. Moving between dilapidated buildings and pristine shopping plazas alike, Hanzo feels any tension he previously felt drain away from him as Jesse talks and talks and  _ talks _ , his voice slow and sweet like the crawl of molasses. 

The first block, Jesse’s metal fingers brush against the back of Hanzo’s hand. The third block, it happens twice. By the seventh block, Hanzo has lost count as Jesse’s touch seems to linger longer than mere coincidence can account for. Neither of them say anything about it, even as Hanzo is sure Jesse’s trained ear catches the hitch of breath in his throat every time it happens.

At the end of the ninth block--two lefts, a right, and another left since the diner--Jesse slows and reaches across Hanzo’s space to pull open the door to some shop. Just like the diner, he holds the door and waves Hanzo in. 

Hanzo steps into the mystery shop; the only signage on the door printed in old-English font reads  _ One More Cup _ . Upon walking through the threshold, Hanzo’s senses are barraged by the scent of brewing tea, earthy and floral. The space is small, probably no more than fifteen by fifteen feet, but the walls are lined with canisters and boxes stacked neatly on floor to ceiling shelves. 

“Welcome to One More Cup!” A young woman no older than twenty stands at a lone register perched on a counter tucked into the corner of the shop. Her accent is thick as she asks them, “Is there anything in particular you gentlemen are looking for today?” 

Jesse responds in easy Spanish and the look of relief on the worker’s face is obvious. She says something back to Jesse and smiles politely before turning away and heading through a door behind the counter, disappearing from their view. Jesse looks down at Hanzo, grin wide across his face as he moves further into the store. “I meant to come here before goin’ to meet you, but I was so hungry I could eat a horse when we landed. Figured food came first.”

Before Hanzo can formulate a response--he’s confused why Jesse wanted to go to a tea shop when his distaste for any brew that isn’t coffee strong enough to wake the dead or the syrupy abomination known as  _ sweet tea _ \--the cashier returns through the door she left through, a neat pyramid of six boxes cradled in her arms. Hanzo instantly recognizes the packaging, a deep maroon box labelled in the language of his homeland, no English visible on the boxes. His eyes widen slightly--he can picture his quickly dwindling stash in his mind. He’d been dreading the day he brews his last cup, not knowing when the next chance he’d get to slip away to Japan to replenish his favourite brand. 

The woman sets down the stock next to the register and starts tapping away at the screen, pleasant smile on her face as she asks Jesse a question. 

Jesse winks at Hanzo and tips his hat before sauntering over to the counter, Spanish spilling from his lips once more. He pulls out a credit chip from his pocket and says something that makes the woman giggle and lean to look at Hanzo behind Jesse’s shoulder. She bags up the tea boxes in a paper bag stamped with the shop’s name and hands it over to Jesse, sparing Hanzo a small wave as the two men exit the shop. 

“How?” Hanzo asks once they’ve walked a few paces in the direction back to the Watchpoint.

Jesse chuckles, handing the bag over to Hanzo. “How what?”

“How did you arrange this? This brand is only sold in Japan.” Hanzo lifts the bag for emphasis. 

“A man can’t reveal all his secrets, darlin’. Gotta retain that air of mystery somehow.” This time the metal of Jesse’s prosthesis touches Hanzo’s wrist for the briefest of moments before it’s gone again. “Consider it a gift in exchange for that cute lil’ paper farm you made for me.”

Heat rises to the tips of Hanzo’s ears, and suddenly he is grateful he decided to wear his hair down. “Please, do not mention it.”

“I’ll treasure those animals until the day I die, sugar.”

Hanzo scoffs and grips the paper bag tightly between his fingers in a vain attempt to detract from his urge to reach out and grab Jesse’s hand. “Ridiculous.”

-

They end up in Jesse’s quarters after Team Dinner, a ‘very American meal’ prepared by one Jack who did  _ not  _ enjoy the Russian cuisine offered during their mission. Even if the salt shaker ended up being passed around the table more than usual, it seemed the agents were more than happy to share in each other’s company regardless of their bland food.

Jesse sets down his glass, no more than a thumb of whiskey left swirling in the bottom. He leans back further into the highlighter hell of the bean bag chair and Hanzo watches as a few pellets of polyfill leak out the side, fluttering to the floor next to Jesse’s left boot. Jesse’s voice is thick like molasses, smooth as the finest single barrel batch when he speaks softly, “I missed you a whole heck of a lot, Han.”

Sake raised to his lips, Hanzo tenses momentarily. Collecting himself and schooling his expression to--hopefully--disguise the way his blood is rushing in his ears, conceal the staccato rhythm his heart beats against the inside of his ribcage, he leans forward slightly to eye the bottle of whiskey Jesse has been drinking from. No more than a glass and a half is missing from the top, so Jesse isn’t drunkenly sappy as he sometimes is after particularly gruelling days. Regardless, surely Jesse doesn’t mean those words the way Hanzo wishes he would. Not meeting Jesse’s burning gaze, Hanzo says calmly, “I did miss our shootouts. No one else here is competition for me.” More shuffling registers in Hanzo’s ears and he can feel Jesse’s eyes searching his face for something but he refuses to give it away.

“No, darlin’, I missed  _ you. _ ” The earnest way Jesse speaks, something akin to desperation tinging his voice, forces Hanzo to meet his gaze finally. Honey-colored eyes stare up at him, clear and open and honest and it makes Hanzo’s heart wrench painfully. “Hell, I ain’t had such a good time just sittin’ around on base waitin’ for a mission as I had with you. Normally I get all antsy and start botherin’ everyone around. But when Winston told me I was on the Russia mission and we weren't goin’ together…”

The silence that follows as Jesse trails off chokes Hanzo, grips him at the base of his throat, and he can’t summon the ability to speak. He sets down his sake glass and unfolds his feet from under him, leaning toward Jesse slightly, anticipation lighting up his veins.

“Look, I know we ain’t been, uh,  _ acquainted _ all that long on account of you were only here ‘bout a month before the Russia mission and I could be readin’ everythin’ all wrong but...” Jesse’s rambling pauses for a moment. He chuckles nervously, breathily. “Damn, darlin’, there ain’t been a minute since we met that you ain’t been on my mind.”

Before he can fully process his actions, Hanzo surges forward until his knees rest on either side of Jesse’s hips, digging into the lumpy beanbag beneath them. He rests his arms on Jesse’s shoulders, fingers brushing the fine hairs at the nape of the cowboy’s neck. Their faces are mere inches apart, Jesse’s whiskey-tart breath ghosting over Hanzo’s lips. 

Neither of them move for what feels like an eternity; they sit, tangled together and breathing each other’s air, staring into each other’s eyes. From here, Hanzo can count every one of Jesse’s eyelashes, can discern the amber gold flakes in Jesse’s irises.

Eventually, Jesse speaks. “Han?”

Hanzo grunts in response, not trusting his voice. 

“Can I kiss you?”

In lieu of verbal reply, Hanzo leans forward, closing the space between them in a glorious press of lips to lips. Immediately Jesse’s hands find purchase on Hanzo’s hips, fingers slipping under his t-shirt and digging into his skin. Their lips glide against each other, slowly and languidly, until warmth begins to pool in Hanzo’s belly. He feels Jesse’s tongue swipe against the seam of his mouth, asking for permission. His hips jerk forward of their own volition, inadvertently grinding their groins together and the friction is positively  _ delicious. _

The groan it tears from Jesse’s throat is even better.

Fingers clutching Hanzo so tightly he’s sure it’ll leave bruises the next day, Jesse swipes his tongue against Hanzo’s lips again and this time Hanzo relents. The subsequent sliding of their tongues together sends a jolt of electricity up Hanzo’s spine that makes him full-body shiver.

“I had no idea you’d be so sensitive, Han.” Jesse’s voice is barely more than a husky whisper, voice rough like sandpaper grating down Hanzo’s resolve. “Ain’t even done anythin’ yet ‘n you’re already squirmin’.”

_ Yet. _ The word crackles in his ears like static. With as much disdain as he can muster in his sorry state, his blood quickly rushing in the opposite direction of his brain, Hanzo growls, “Shut up and kiss me, cowman.” 

Jesse chuckles and Hanzo can feel the rumble in his own chest. “I’d love to, but why don’t we take this to the bed?” Before Hanzo can respond, Jesse moves one of his hands from Hanzo’s hips and slides a calloused palm along the length of his spine, leaving a burning trail in its wake. “As much as I’m enjoyin’ you bein’ on top of me, I’m sure it’s more comfortable.” 

Hanzo opens his mouth to reply, witty comeback on the tip of his tongue, when Jesse plants his lips against the column of Hanzo’s neck, just below his ear, and a moan is ripped from his throat. He can feel Jesse’s lips curve into a smirk against his skin as he presses another kiss to the junction between his neck and shoulder. 

Jesse’s left hand slips to Hanzo’s abdomen, muscles twitching under the touch. “Oh, honey, the things I could do to you. You respond so nice.” 

“All I hear are empty words.  _ Show me.” _

-

Hanzo is thrust abruptly into the land of the conscious at some point in the middle of the night. A heavy warmth rests across the length of his chest, the feeling of bare skin on his own a sensation he has not felt in years. He takes a deep breath and tilts his chin down to observe his bed partner tucked against his side, head cradled in the junction of Hanzo's shoulder. Jesse's messy locks are splayed against his neck, the fine hairs tickling the underside of his chin; the man is completely naked, not an iota of cloth separating their bodies as Jesse has seemingly glued himself to Hanzo's side after their… intimate activities. 

_ I can see your thread, brother.  _

Genji’s words ring, unbidden, in Hanzo’s mind. He and Jesse had talked about their soulmates (or lack thereof), about their lack of interest in pursuing any potential of still having a soulmate--but that was  _ before. _ Before they came together, before Jesse confessed, before Hanzo reciprocated albeit it nonverbally-- _ before _ .

Jesse lets out a soft snore from just below Hanzo’s ear, a heavy breath puffing against Hanzo’s skin. Hanzo redirects his attention back to the prone cowman splayed across him and feels his lips tug upward at the sight. 

He knew he’d have to broach the subject of soulmates sooner or later, now that they are… whatever they are. More than they were. But for now, Hanzo feels the heaviness of sleep tugging at the edges of his conscious, dragging him back to sleep under the warm influence of having Jesse by his side, finally.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sorry y'all i really just could not bring myself to write them actually fucking??? anyway the next (and final!) chapter will be 99% mchanzo fluff so be prepared~
> 
> follow me on [twitter](https://twitter.com/OedipusOctopus)


	9. bear mccree

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> IT'S THE END!! I'm really sad to see the end of this fic, but I'm so incredibly happy with the work overall. I'm so thankful for all the love and support along the way <3 
> 
> Please enjoy the finale of these two oblivious idiots _finally_ getting theirs!!!

Internal clock be damned, Hanzo wakes again before the sun has risen. This time, the heat radiating from Jesse completely envelopes him; the cowboy has turned onto his side and pulled Hanzo into him--spooning, Hanzo thinks it’s called. One of Jesse’s arms is thrown around Hanzo’s chest, holding him in place; their legs are tangled together as much as they can be with the lower half of Hanzo’s legs removed and sitting on the bedside table. Jesse is warm like a furnace and his skin covered in a thick layer of hair that Hanzo had imagined would bother him, but he can hardly register it at all through the morning haze hanging over his head, clouded by the feel of naked skin on skin. 

Though it is comforting being surrounded so completely by the heat of Jesse’s body, it comes at a price--as Hanzo shifts his hips forward with the intent of pulling away, the unpleasant feeling of their skin peeling apart, sweat acting like glue between their bodies, makes Hanzo grimace. He is absolutely disgusting, sleep sweat clinging to his back, the feeling of mostly dried lube between his thighs sticky. 

_ Shower. Immediately. _

Hanzo continues to peel himself away from Jesse’s prone form, wincing as cold air replaces the warmth of the other man pressed against him. He moves slowly, carefully, so as not to wake Jesse and mostly succeeds--when Hanzo lifts Jesse’s arm, the cowboy lets out a soft snort before rolling onto his back, breaths already returning to the slow, long draws of a deep sleep. A smile crawls its way onto his face, so wide it feels unnatural, as he attaches his prosthetics.

He moves toward the en-suite bathroom for a much-needed shower, but flashbacks of the last time he was in that bathroom--puking, doubled over the toilet, with Jesse soothing him even in his most disgusting state--the  _ hangover horror _ . His own bathroom in his room will have to do. 

As he picks his clothes up from where they were haphazardly thrown onto the floor the previous night, Hanzo sneaks a glance up at Jesse on his own bed. The standard issue blanket has mostly slipped off his body, his left leg and half his ass poking out of the covers. The urge to slap Jesse’s backside is surprisingly strong, but Hanzo catches himself mid-swing as he sees the bedside table clock flicker to display 5:32 AM. They were up late the night before, surely Jesse would not appreciate being woken up so early. 

Fully believing he was being gracious in his actions, Hanzo slips out of Jesse’s room and into his own quarters. He strips out of his clothes, nose wrinkling at the sound of his underwear peeling away from his sticky thighs. The feeling of fingers--half warm flesh, half cool metal--gripping his hips lingers, as does the phantom trace of lips and teeth and tongue down the column of his neck. Suppressing a shudder, Hanzo steps into his shower and turns on the water to its coldest setting, hoping he will be able to freeze out the remaining feeling of Jesse’s (surprisingly thorough) ministrations from last night--not because he wishes to forget, but because he knows he will have to face the other agents today, and the last thing he needs while looking his brother in the face is the crawling sensation of his and Jesse’s trysts on his skin.

With hands tangled in his hair and soap running down the backs of his bionic calves, a thought dawns on Hanzo--he is going to face the other agents at some point today. Would Jesse want to keep whatever this  _ thing _ is under wraps? Will he pretend like nothing happened?

Any doubts Hanzo might have about Jesse’s willingness to make their… whatever this is public wash away once Hanzo steps out of the shower and looks at himself in the mirror. Through the steam induced fog, Hanzo stares at his reflection. His face looks normal, but his neck... 

_ His neck. _

Small mouth-shaped splotches dot the skin of his throat, spreading below his collar bone and past the reaches of the mirror. Hanzo counts no less than four marks that would not be hidden by any clothes in his closet. Staring at Jesse’s handiwork, Hanzo thinks that  _ of course _ Jesse wouldn’t care about the other agents knowing. The man doesn’t have a discrete bone in his body, previous spec ops experience notwithstanding.

Hanzo finishes getting ready for the day, every scrape of his t-shirt against a love bite on his collarbone a reminder of last night, the occasional twinge in his lower back a ghost of late evening activities. He spends several minutes debating if he should tie his hair up or leave it down--eventually he decides to tie it back, and the decision has nothing to do with the fact that his hair down will cover more of his neck. The marks will be seen regardless, and his pride will not allow him to  _ cower _ behind his hair.

By the time he finishes, his bedside clock displays 6:10 AM. It’s much later than he normally eats breakfast, and he knows there will be more agents present than normal because of it--more agents to be witness to the physical evidence of he and Jesse sleeping together. The thought bothers him less than it should as he feels his chest expand, puffing up as he thinks about the catharsis of  _ finally _ being with Jesse. 

(He blames his dragons for his inflated sense of pride in having finally laid with Jesse McCree.)

Emboldened by the marks left by his… lover? Hanzo opens the door to his quarters and steps into the hallway. He stops when he sees Jesse’s form sitting on the floor next to the door, his knees pulled up to his chest, head buried between his knees, shoulders hunched in defeat. The position makes the man look small, much smaller than he is. 

“Jesse?” Hanzo calls softly, unsure of why the cowboy his  _ here _ , on the floor of all places. 

Jesse scrambles to his feet, long limbs flailing without the usual grace Hanzo has come to expect from the man. Hanzo notices he has thrown on the same flannel and jeans he wore yesterday, though that ridiculous belt buckle is missing from the ensemble, as is his usual hat. Jesse has a strange look in his eyes, something akin to sadness alongside tentative hopefulness. He reaches toward Hanzo for a moment as if moving to grasp his hands, but seems to think better of it and retreats back to himself. “Er, can we talk?”

Instantly, Hanzo’s mind begins racing with thoughts of  _ He’s going to say this was a mistake, maybe he was drunk after all and is about to deck me for taking advantage, he regrets it. _ He crosses his arms in front of his chest and raises an eyebrow, waiting for the inevitable downfall of any hopeful thought he’s had this morning.

“I--” Jesse starts, cutting himself off abruptly with a nervous chuckle. He raises a finger to scratch at his cheek, just above his beard. “That sounded… bad. I just--I really hope this was more than a… one night stand.” His face twists over the last words, as if speaking them causes him pain. 

Hanzo feels his jaw clench as he grits out, “I do not do one night stands.” 

“Of course not, darlin’.” Jesse laughs lightly, barely more than a puff of breath tinged with amusement and relief. “I wanted to check we’re on the same page, is all. You left awful quick this mornin’.”

“I needed to shower,” Hanzo says simply, as if it were obvious. His hair is dripping onto the back of his neck, after all. He uncrosses his arms, satisfied that Jesse does not seem to regret their transpirations, but is merely a fool.

“You could’a used mine, doll! Hell, we could’a made it a good time.” Jesse reaches up to a hat that isn’t there and gives a phantom tip, topped with an exaggerated wink.

Hanzo scoffs, lip curling upward, and moves past Jesse toward the kitchen. He allows his hand to brush Jesse’s. “I thought it prudent you have a  _ real _ shower. I could smell you all the way from my quarters, cowman.”

Footsteps trail after Hanzo as he continues walking. He can practically feel the grin that spreads across Jesse’s face. “Now, I was thinkin’--”

“Oh, perhaps that is what I smelled.”

“Mean.” Regardless, Jesse chuckles and falls into step beside Hanzo. “As I was sayin’ before I was so  _ rudely interrupted,  _ we ain’t on any missions for today. So maybe we could have ourselves a repeat or two. Or twenty. Who knows where the wind will take us?”

Hanzo glances at the other man from the corner of his eye, eyebrows raised to his hairline. “You wish to spend the entire day rolling around in bed?”

“Based on last night’s experience, I didn’t think you’d be complainin’, darlin’.”

Hanzo smirks and looks up at McCree through his lashes. “You will be the one to complain once I’m through with you.”

“Don’t you threaten me with a good time, now!”

The two round the corner into the kitchen. Sure enough, several agents are seated at the table chatting away, and Hanzo hopes he’s able to retain his carefully neutral expression. A glance over at Jesse reveals a wide grin, akin to that of a cat who got the cream.

Those seated at the dining table fall silent as Hanzo moves to the counter to start preparing his coffee. Mei’s eyes are wide as dinner saucers, Genji is smirking wickedly at Hanzo with waggling eyebrows--even Satya is staring openly at them with her mouth slightly ajar. 

The look Genji is giving Hanzo is one of those all knowing, conspiratorial faces, and it reminds Hanzo of his recent discovery that he does indeed have a soulmate, and he’ll surely have to talk about it with Jesse soon. 

Soon. Not now. 

If Jesse hasn’t mentioned it yet, it’s obviously not pressing enough to warrant this much stress.

So Hanzo goes about making his breakfast, all while he feels three pairs of eyes boring into the back of his neck. 

After a few moments of tense silence, Jesse sets down his mug of coffee onto the counter with a finality of a parent scolding their child over breakfast. “Okay okay, now y’all can look away. Act like the  _ adults  _ I know y’all can be.” He grabs an apple from the fridge and picks up his coffee once more. He moves toward the kitchen threshold, glancing at Hanzo over his shoulder. “Let’s take this meal back to your room, honeybee.”

Heat rises to Hanzo’s cheeks at the nickname, but he ignores it and trails after Jesse, breakfast and his own cup of coffee clutched in his hands. As he steps through the doorway, he hears Genji exasperatedly whisper, “Ohmygod, Hanzo is blushing.”

-

Truthfully, he and Jesse spend the rest of the morning in bed. They take turns at unraveling the other, watching their companion come undone, time after time. Even in his youth Hanzo had never experienced this kind of attention from a lover, had never been able to live out the youthful fantasy of being taken apart at the seams again and again and again until the boneless, weightless feeling of complete satisfaction is all there is left to feel. 

But eventually they must take a break. Jesse’s stomach lets out what could only be described as a  _ roar _ sometime around 11:30 while the man is hovering over Hanzo, lips pressed to an already fading mark on his neck. Jesse sits back on his heels, inadvertently grinding his ass against Hanzo’s erection. The cowboy wears a sheepish grin as he says, “Physical exertion will make ya hungry, darlin’. What say you we break for lunch and then have a good ol’ fashioned shootout?”

Hanzo pretends to consider the request for several moments before responding. “It has been too long since I last bested you in a competition not involving jelly.”

Jesse leans back and playfully slaps Hanzo’s thigh, coercing a pleased noise from Hanzo’s throat. “Don’t get too cocky, now. Remember, hubris is a killer.” He moves off of Hanzo with a wink and begins re-dressing himself in yesterday’s clothes. 

“Tch. You must also remember that history repeats itself. I believe I am in the lead, fourteen to eleven wins.” Hanzo forces himself from the bed, hissing as cool air hits his damp back, and begins donning his own clothing.

Smirking at him, Jesse opens the door and looks over his shoulder cloyingly. “Y’ain’t seen how much of a  _ distraction  _ I can be in the range, darlin’. Just you wait.”

Hanzo matches his smirk. “Two can play at that game, cowboy.”

-

After a light lunch in the courtyard, Hanzo and Jesse depart to their own quarters to prepare for their shootout. As Hanzo ties off his kyudo-gi, he sees his comm light up with a new message. He unlocks the datapad and opens the messaging app. 

_ New Message from Agent Genji: _ _   
_ _ 12:45 _ _   
_ _ [Genji]: I’m proud of you, anija. _

Hanzo beings typing a message, Genji’s meaning lost on him, when another message pops up before he can finish. 

_ [Genji]: You saved a horse, rode a cowboy. _

He stares down at the datapad in his hands for a few moments, unsure of how to respond as he feels heat rise to the tips of his ears. 

A knock at his door breaks him from his staring contest with his comm. He sets the thing down and opens the door, only to reveal Jesse standing before him in his regular training gear, grinning from ear to ear. 

“Ready, darlin’?”

Hanzo leans down to grab Storm Bow’s case and nods. Jesse grabs his hand and starts to lead him down the hallway, and Hanzo can’t stop the wide smile that overtakes his face, can’t ignore the warm feeling spreading under his ribcage. 

With Jesse’s hand surrounding his own, Hanzo feels happy, free, for the first time he can remember.

* * *

A few days later, Hanzo finds himself sitting across from Jesse McCree, Mama Maya’s sticky table separating them. Jesse is grinning at him like the fool that he is, one hand laid over Hanzo’s, thumb stroking soothing circles on Hanzo’s skin. They’ve finished their food, plates cleared and Hanzo declared champion of jelly football once more. It’s a moment Hanzo wishes he could squeeze into a bottle or press between the pages of a book to revisit later, when the memories of Genji’s blood on his hands comes back to haunt him. 

Of course, this is the time his carefully trained verbal filter decides to fail him as he blurts out, “I have a soulmate.”

Hanzo watches in abject horror as Jesse’s smile slowly fades from his face until his features are schooled into a blank expression. He says nothing, but does not remove his hand from Hanzo’s. 

Hanzo continues, seemingly unable to stop this word vomit. “Genji informed me that he is able to see my thread.”

Jesse continues staring at Hanzo, eyes not giving away what he might be thinking. He says nothing and his thumb stops moving over Hanzo’s hand, but doesn’t pull away. 

“When we spoke of our respective soulmates before, I hope I made it sufficiently clear that I do not believe anything would come from meeting my soulmate. Nothing could come of a relationship with my soulmate.”

Several minutes pass before Jesse’s thumb resumes its former ministrations. “Do you think somethin’ could come from a relationship with me?”

Whatever Hanzo might have been expecting Jesse’s response to be, it certainly was not this. The man does have a particular talent for surprising Hanzo at any turn, he supposes. Hanzo does not respond verbally, but raises an eyebrow in question.  _ I do not understand. _

Face remaining carefully neutral, Jesse continues, “You’re basically sayin’ you don’t give a damn about your soulmate or tryin’ to pursue anythin’ with them because you don’t think you could give yourself to that relationship, right?”

Hanzo nods slowly, dropping his gaze to the table between them. For as much of an idiot Jesse might come off as with the cowboy accoutrements, the man is extremely perceptive. His emotional intelligence is something Hanzo finds himself envious of in moments like these.

Jesse sighs loudly and runs his thumb across Hanzo’s knuckles, calluses rough against Hanzo’s skin. “Look at me, Hanzo?”

He does, and  _ fuck _ Jesse has this earnest look in his eyes, like he’d rather be nowhere else. Hanzo’s heart stutters. 

“I appreciate you tellin’ me ‘bout your soulmate, but, uh…” Jesse trails off momentarily and Hanzo reaches into the depths of his oyabun training to keep his face from portraying his panicking thoughts. “That kinda talk makes me a lil’ angry.”

Furrowing his brows, Hanzo tries to pull his hand away from Jesse’s grasp, immediately on the defensive. The other man’s grasp tightens over Hanzo’s hand, refusing Hanzo escape. A surge of anger washes over him. “I thought we were on the same page about soulmates, McCree--”

“I can’t see your string.”

“...What?”

Jesse’s smile returns, albeit more softly. Tender. “Your finger is as bare as I see my own, darlin’.”

Eyes lowering to stare at their clasped hands, Hanzo quiets. The flare of anger in his gut dims, replaced instead by nervousness and excitement and  _ hope. _ The lack of thread around Jesse’s pinky has been apparent to Hanzo since he first saw the man, but since Jesse told Hanzo about his past, Hanzo had not even dared to consider the lack of string could mean they were soulmates. But now…

“The way I see it, Genji could’a been lyin’ to you, tryin’ to play matchmaker between us two old men...”

Hanzo’s breath catches in his throat as he continues to stare at their connected hands, attempting to will the thread between them into existence. 

“...Or we could be soulmates. I lean toward the latter. Genji is a little shit, sure, but he’s smart enough to know when to be serious.”

It’s Hanzo’s turn to stay quiet in lieu of responding. 

“I gotta admit, I had my own suspicions.” Hanzo’s eyebrows raise at Jesse’s words, incredulous. “When you said everyone was always talkin’ your ear off ‘bout soulmates, I noticed they started doin’ it to me, too. An’ everyone ‘round here knows I ain’t one for that kinda talk.” Jesse pauses, stills his thumb over Hanzo’s hand. He continues, voice low, “Winston also migha said somehin’ about it.”

Hanzo’s eyes snap up to meet Jesse’s intense gaze. “What? He told you?”  _ Did he only sleep with me because we’re soulmates? Is this why he’s acting different? Is this all because he found out-- _

“Not in so many words, but he did ask me on the way to Russia how the ‘soulmate bonding’ was goin’. Didn’t mention you by name but it makes sense...” Jesse pauses, takes a sip of his coffee as if buying time to gather his thoughts--showing more restraint than Hanzo has during this conversation. “But I didn’t know, I swear. I know you’re thinkin’ ‘Did he only sleep with me because he knew were were soulmates,’ and that’s not the case, not at all. I just… had entertained the idea, I guess. It ain’t somethin’ I thought about for a long time, and then you show up ‘n suddenly I’m thinkin’ ‘bout all these wild romantic fantasies and I’m ramblin, ain’t I?” He sighs deeply. “Anyhow, I knew how you felt ‘bout meetin’ your soulmate, so I figured it didn’t matter whether I thought we could be or not. That’s… that’s all.”

It’s all too much, too quickly--he found out less than a week ago that his soulmate is still out there, expecting him, and now he has to face the fact that the man he has been infatuated with since his first day at Overwatch is probably--almost certainly--his soulmate.  _ It makes sense, _ Jesse said, and Hanzo supposes it does--the inexplicable immediate attraction, the ease of which Jesse was able to slip into his life and mold Hanzo’s day to day routine, the dragons’ primal response to Jesse--and yet there is that demon crawling in the back of his mind, whispering to him that this is all too convenient, it’s all too good to be true, it’s more than Hanzo deserves, it’s better than Hanzo can handle without monumentally ruining the first  _ good _ relationship in his life, it’s--

“Anyway. Uh. So,” Jesse’s drawl slithers between Hanzo and his own self-destructive thoughts, tearing all of Hanzo’s attention from the dark place all too easily, without reproach. “I think we’re soulmates. Uh, but I liked you even before I started thinkin’ we could be. For the record.” The nervousness with which Jesse speaks does not suit him, with his confident swagger and self-assured aura. 

Hanzo’s selfish curiosity gets the best of him, and he lets it, for once. “How long?” He finds himself becoming more and more selfish with each passing day, but he can’t stop as long as Jesse continues to indulge him. 

Jesse smiles at him, warm and syrupy and crooked and sincere in ways that Hanzo only wishes he could mirror. “I already told you. The moment I laid eyes on you I felt somethin’. Then we started hangin’ out everyday and it felt… right.” He squeezes Hanzo’s hand. “I been sweet on you from the very beginnin’, Hanzo.”

“Oh,” Hanzo breathes out. “I see.”

“So, uh,” Jesse’s smile turns into a sheepish grin, his hard stare morphing into hopeful puddles of whiskey. “Knowin’ all that, do you wanna give this thing a shot?”

Heart pounding against his ribcage so hard he’s sure Jesse can see his pulse, Hanzo rasps, “What ‘thing?’” 

Jesse chuckles. “I mean, do you wanna be my boyfriend?”

_ Boyfriend. _

“I realize we’re probably a bit old to be callin’ each other boyfriends--”

“No!” Hanzo interrupts. “I’d like that. To be… boyfriends.”

Jesse grins fully, unabashedly. “Don’t that just beat all.”

* * *

Wednesday rolls around before Hanzo realizes. Team Dinner means all agents will be present at the dining table at 6:00 PM sharp, ready to eat and share stories and  _ gossip.  _

It’s Hana who first says something as Jesse and Hanzo stroll into the kitchen, fingers entwined, Hanzo laughing at a joke Jesse makes about their last movie night. Hana has been away on a small vacation to Busan, and has not yet been witness to the new phenomenon at the Watchpoint. Eyes trained on their connected hands, Hana sighs exaggeratedly. “Oh thank god, we can stop tiptoeing around them now.”

From his seat at the head of the table, Winston asks, “What? Who was tiptoeing?”

“Uh, everyone?” Hana spoons some fried rice onto her plate. “Because Genji asked us not to tell them about being soulmates?”

Hanzo side-eyes Genji as he grabs a plate and begins piling food high.

Nervousness obvious in his voice, Winston says, “Oh no. That was what the emergency meeting Genji called was about. I was busy and did not attend. Oh… No. I was careless.”

Mid-scoop, Hanzo recalls his and Winston’s conversation about the Russia Team’s roster.  _ I usually try to keep soulmates together.  _ He groans and barely resists the urge to lower his head to his hands in shame. “It seems I have been foolish.”

Jesse chuckles and pats Hanzo on the back before taking his own seat, plate full with rice and chicken. “All’s well that ends well, ain’t it? So no harm done.”

Hana scoffs as Hanzo takes his place next to Jesse. “Tell that to the skin on Hanzo’s neck. He looks like he got mauled by a bear.”

“Hey now!” Jesse exclaims, mock-exasperated.

Hanzo absently lifts his hand to brush his fingers against one of the marks dotting his neck. “It is quite alright. I like them.”

Beside him, Jesse chokes on his first bite of chicken. Hana fake retches from where she sits on the counter top. Genji gags from across Hanzo. 

Quickly collecting himself, Jesse grabs Hanzo’s hands in his and says with faux sincerity, “You’re the only one who understands. Run away with me, doll.”

Winston inhales sharply and says quietly under his breath, “Not my agents…”

Hanzo scoffs, removing his hands from Jesse’s grasp so he can turn his attention back to his food. “Ridiculous.”

Jesse places his prosthetic hand on Hanzo’s thigh and squeezes lightly. Conversation starts up around them, but Hanzo remains grounded through the feel of cool metal through his jeans. Jesse smiles down at him sweetly, playfulness still present in his amber eyes. “You wouldn’t have it any other way.”

Returning Jesse’s tender smile two-fold, Hanzo shakes his head and chuckles. “No, I wouldn’t.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> :')
> 
> If you want more idiots being idiots in love, check out my [coffee shop AU McHanzo fic](https://archiveofourown.org/works/22271053/chapters/53184514)! I'm working on a few other McHanzo pieces as well, so stay tuned!! (If you're so inclined, subscribe to me so you'll be notified when I post something new!)
> 
> follow me on [Twitter](https://twitter.com/OedipusOctopus) for future fic updates/random weeb shit :)
> 
> Thank y'all again SO SO SO MUCH for all the kudos and comments!!! I feel so incredibly lucky to have had so many people enjoy this fic that I'm so incredibly proud of. I cannot thank y'all enough <3


	10. after the end but before the beginning

The world does not stop when he begins to date Jesse McCree. It’s strange to even say they’re dating--they’re old men at this point, the word “date” rings of prom nights and teenage trysts, not two men who have killed enough people between them to populate a small city. But Jesse Mccree is Hanzo’s  _ boyfriend _ , a word that feels too much and not enough, but when Jesse suggests they call each other partner in that ridiculous accent, Hanzo can only think of the spaghetti westerns Jesse has coerced him into watching. 

The world does not stop when Hanzo admits to himself that they  _ must _ truly be soulmates. Teams get sent out on missions, training resumes, and everything is the same as it was before that night, but also completely different. Jesse touches Hanzo no matter where on base they are or who is around--leads him into an out of rooms with a palm burning on the small of his back, stray strokes along his thigh when they sit next to each other for Team Dinners, lingering brushes of fingers against his cheek so tender Hanzo feels wetness prick the corners of his eyes. Of course, the sex is different, in the best way possible. Hanzo’s sleep has not been plagued by nightmares in weeks; instead his unconscious is overtaken by phantom wet heat surrounding him, the ghost touch of lips to his most sensitive areas, the imagined slide of slick skin against his own.

The world does not stop after Jesse whispers “I love you, Han” one night while Hanzo exists in the limbo between consciousness and sleep. Hanzo simply kisses him chastely the next morning before leaving for his daily meditation with Genji and parts ways with a softly spoken, “I love you, too.” 

The world does not stop when Hanzo realizes he and Jesse McCree are going to be together until their last days, whether tomorrow or in forty years. When Hanzo tells Jesse as much after a long-winded session of Jesse cooling Hanzo down post fight with Genji, Jesse laughs and sets aside his hat. “Darlin’, if I didn’t know you better, I’d think that was a marriage proposal.” Hanzo smiles at him, takes in his eyes crinkled at the corners and fond gaze, and says nothing more.

The world does not stop when Hanzo catches Jesse staring at him with that goofy grin on his face, right before the cowboy says he wants to retire from Overwatch, that he wants to settle down with Hanzo outside of this hero business. It opens up a whole new world for Hanzo--a lighter, less burdened version of the world he once knew. Separating himself from the pressures of fighting for the greater good turns out to be the best thing for his and Genji’s relationship. This is, of course, without mentioning the relief of waking up every morning without wondering if today will be the day a mission will take Jesse from him.

No, the world does not stop when Hanzo gives himself fully to his soulmate, one Jesse McCree. In fact, it’s all just beginning.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> <3


End file.
